The Malfoy Code
by Macabre Sinclair
Summary: Draco Malfoy is facing a lot this year: the decision of whether or not to be a Death Eater, contending with the infamously inquisitive nature of the Trio, and, most importantly, managing a relationship with the passionate Miss Pansy Parkinson. (slash)
1. Malfoys Don't Keep Diaries

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The Malfoy Code

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Malfoys Don't Keep Diaries

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It was dark in the room. There were no muggle street lamps outside to cast shadows of the window panes against the far wall, nor was there the comforting shine from underneath the door that means someone is out and about. You _could _see your hand in front of your face, but you had to squint a bit, and maybe wave once or twice.

In the darkness, behind a wall of heavy curtain, a light flickered on. It cast a very slight, almost-invisible glow to the room.

In the almost-darkness, behind the same wall of heavy curtain, something rustled. Then came the tiny _pop_, as one might hear when removing the top from a bottle of ink. Then the gentle skittering scratches much like that of a quill moving across paper. It was hesitant at first, as though the perpetrator was afraid of being caught and punished. It grew faster though – more confident.

In the almost-darkness, behind a wall of heavy curtain, Draco Malfoy lay atop the bedcovers in his green-and-silver pyjamas. The tip of a long, beautiful quill quivered and shook as he wrote. Occasionally it would brush his cheek and he would pause, startled, until he realised that it was only his quill.

These were the letters formed by that quill:

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Dear Diary [scratch through the former] _No, that's not right, that's altogether much too feminine. I'm not feminine. Call it "Journal" , then._

It's very late and I think I'm incoherent. I know it's dangerous to write out my thoughts like this, but I certainly can't tell anyone and I think I have to express them somehow or I'll stand on the table and profess my love to Professor Snape, like that pathetic Seventh Year who went nutters.

Ugh. I **am** incoherent. I will make sure to use correct grammar henceforth.

I'm very confused, Journal. I mean, of course I'll follow in my father's footsteps and be a Death Eater and all that. It's for the Cause, right? It's noble, and Malfoys have been pursuing it for generations and…

Those are very stupid reasons, aren't they? 

I loathe nobility. Every proper Slytherin loathes nobility. If you were to walk up to a stupid, snot-nosed little First Year and say, "How do you feel about nobility, then?" he'd say, "Oh, nobility. I loathe it."

And as for Malfoys pursuing it for generations… We're not followers. We're not supposed to be followers. We're practically taught from birth to find the one thing that no one, on any side, wants us to do and then do it.

So why are we kissing the hem of Lord V.'s robes, then? It practically goes against everything Malfoy, doesn't it?

And Father's in Azkaban.

And everyone showed up and Mother was so distraught and didn't know what to say and they were laughing like nothing had happened.

I'm sulking. Malfoys don't sulk. This is ridiculous. Writing in a diary. It's a bad habit. Making me go sentimental. I will **not** be sentimental.

And then the quill stopped, and a thick silence swathed the air. Another rustle, and a soft grunt as might be heard when shoving a book under a mattress.

The light went out.

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Dear Journal,

Okay, so I'm writing again. Who cares? Father's trial is tomorrow and of course he'll get the Kiss. All the others have. Mother is only a Malfoy by marriage and I don't think she cares whether or not I uphold the Malfoy name. Well, she cares, but not to the point that Father did. Not to the point of restricting a diary.

Why is it that when I put a quill in my hand, I rant and rave like some fool Hufflepuff?

Snape's been giving me odd looks. Snape gives everyone odd looks, of course – he's Snape – but mine have been especially odd as of late. Who knows why? It's Snape.

You're a diary-thing, so I suppose I should give an account of my day. That's what you're for, right? Not for me spouting off about what might happen and odd looks and the Malfoy name.

Well… There's been a bit of a scandal as of late. It's really just gossip material, but the girls of Slytherin have elevated it into a bloody civil war.

A graduating seventh year, Samuel something-or-other, has been dating a Gryffindor fifth year. And so, naturally, everyone's going on about 'Betrayal!' and name calling – alternately – 'Slytherin Bastard!' and 'Gryffindor Slut!' 

It's so stupid. Gryffindors are clumsy oafs, the lot of them, but… Well, whose bed Samuel something-or-other wants to sleep in his business, isn't it? I know for a fact Pansy's long legs have wrapped around the waists of a few of the prettier Gryffindor boys, and that Blaise's fantastic mane has seduced many a maiden from other houses.

But, apparently, Samuel's little affair is a bit more long-lasting. It's odd, isn't it, when we're scandalised that it **isn't** all about sex? 

Gods above! First inane rambling and now petty gossip? Father was right. Diaries do turn you into a girl.

That's it. Absolutely not writing anymore. Load of garbage.

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Harry skidded around the corner, panting. Peeves' gleeful cackling floated after him. The poltergeist was relentless. Today he was hurling huge bucketfuls of slime at his chosen targets. (And Harry was, evidently, a chosen target.) He wouldn't have minded it quite so much if the stuff wasn't half-acidic. It ate your clothes – down to your underwear – right off. And he was near the Ravenclaw wing of the castle.

The Charms classroom door! Directly in front of him. He grabbed the handle and yanked, but it wouldn't yield. Locked. And Peeves' cackling was growing louder and more confident.

"_Alohomora_!" he bellowed, jerked the door open, and leapt inside, slamming it shut after him.

****

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Dear Journal,

Broke my resolution again. Only because I'm bored, though. Filch has gotten progressively less imaginative, and I am now stuck in a classroom alone for four hours. Bloody hell.

Well, seeing as I have nothing better to do and you just **happen** to be lurking in my book bag, I figured I'd write.

Good god, did I just call this thing 'you'?

Potter is contagious. I'm thinking plebeian thoughts.

Well, never mind. Here's how I got into detention in the first place:

I was minding my own business as usual – just strolling along – when out of nowhere Weasley walks by and trips on my foot, badly injuring my ankle in the process! So, naturally, bruised and offended, I said "Oh, Weasley, come to grovel on the ground as is proper for one of your lowly station?"

Weasley has no decorum whatsoever. I will admit, under duration, that my comment might have, possibly, been mildly provoking. (Not **very** provoking, but I suppose that such creatures as Weasleys are easily provoked and allowances must be made.) It did not, however, call for him to punch me in the jaw.

So, as anyone in my position would have done, I pulled my wand and told him that if he dared do that again I'd cast a mild charm on his lady friend.

Well, perhaps those weren't quite the words I used. But they were close enough.

Anyway, Potter pulled a wand on **me**, as did Granger, and then it was three against one and completely unfair and I had a completely natural and rational reaction.

Besides. I'm sure Pomfrey will be able to get the spots off. I'm sure they aren't **that** permanent.

But McGonagall caught us and, as always, assumed it to be my fault. The woman is completely unfairly biased. She should be sacked.

So here I am in detention. Bored. Boredboredbored. [Very large inkblot.]

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I suppose I should tell you about my Father.

Truthfully, he's just that. Father with a capital 'F'. I'm sure he could hear it in lowercase a mile off. And he'd say, "Draco. Why. Aren't. You. Capitalising. My. 'F'."

I may be rather good at intimidation, but Father is far, far better. I know this.

Father's better at everything.

Well, of course he is. He's, what? Thirty years older? At least twenty-seven. No, must be thirty. Dear god, do I not know how old my Father is?

I don't know how old my Father is. I really don't. That's impossible. Mother's forty-one. So he had to have been somewhere around late twenties or early thirties when I was born.

Well, what do I know about him? Lots.

He's very powerful. Both magically and politically. He's the most powerful man I know. I admire him greatly.

I know I said he's the most powerful, and I suppose you're thinking 'Oh, so what's Lord V. then? Cat piddle?'

Lord V. is powerful in a different way, though. I mean, you say 'Lord V.' and everyone in the room says "Goodness! Don't say such things! How awful!"

You say 'Lucius Malfoy' and everyone in the room says "Oh. Lucius. Brilliant man. Very intelligent. Very powerful." They may add "Dangerous," but that's only if he doesn't like them.

Do you understand, though? The difference between Father and Lord V.? Father is power. Lord V. is intimidation.

Well, obviously Father is intimidating too, but there's a difference.

For instance

The door flew open just then with such suddenness that Draco upset his inkwell and spilled it all over his hands as he fumbled his journal back into his bag. Potter sailed through the door, slamming it shut behind him and leaning heavily against it, panting.

"Potter!"

Potter looked up and his eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in suspicion. "What are you doing here?"

"_I'm_ in detention, where I hoped to be left in peace. What's chasing you?"

"Never mind," Potter barked, "I'm not staying here long anyway. Only until Peeves goes away."

Draco raised an eyebrow, but the Gryffindor didn't seem to realise that he'd just answered Draco's question. Rather, he was too preoccupied pressing his ear against the wood of the door and listening for Peeves.

"I think he's gone," Potter decided after another minute or so, and tried the knob. When it refused to move, he drew his wand and attempted an _Alohomora_. No result.

"Honestly, Potter. It's a _detention_. The door is impenetrable from this side," Draco snapped, irritated.

Potter sent him a glare that was no doubt meant to be fear-inspiring. "How does-" he began, but cut himself off as he noticed something odd happening outside the window.

An upside-down shape bobbed down from beyond the glass. It was wearing skin-tight all-black attire, as one might see on a particularly outlandish illustration of a spy novel, and its legs and arms were wrapped tightly around a rope like a frightened frog.

"Ah," Draco said, cheering up, "Pansy!"

Pansy tried to spin herself upright in one fluid, graceful movement, nearly fell off the rope, and ended up scrabbling at the window panes for dear life. Her delicate blonde ringlets were in complete disarray.

Draco rose from his chair and went to the window, which he _very carefully_ opened and let Pansy inside. Dried bits of white paint from the windows were stuck all over her black jump suit in a most undignified manner. As soon as she had regained her footing she commenced with brushing them off.

"Oh, honestly, Draco," she scolded, looking up from her trousers momentarily. "Must you _always_ antagonise Potter so? I swear, if I've ripped these you'll be paying for it! And what is Potter doing here, anyway? I thought he got away with it, as usual."

"Potter, as per his usual idiocy, locked himself in here."

Her elegant blonde eyebrows rose mockingly. "_Did he indeed_? Well, well. Shall we take him or leave him?"

Draco considered. It was certainly tempting to leave Potter in the classroom all by himself, stranded, as he climbed off into the sunset with Pansy on his shoulders. Unfortunately, Potter would tell and he would be facing another detention in which he would probably not be placed near any accessible windows.

"I suppose we have to take him with," he said regretfully.

Potter looked at the two Slytherins with utmost contempt. "I'm not coming with you!"

Pansy shifted irritably. "If Draco wants you to come, then you're coming," she said decisively. "I'll carry you myself if I have to," she added, almost snarling, and stalked up to Potter. He was rather short, and Pansy was fairly tall, and, with the added support of three-inch platformed boots, she was able to look down on him quite successfully.

Potter was not intimidated. He then prepared to say the single most devastating thing it is possible to say to a vain Slytherin. "Your hair's a disaster."

Her eyes narrowed. "Potter. As if you're one to talk."

"I'm not kidding," he said cheerfully. "The curls are in absolute _chaos_."

She made a low growling noise deep in her throat. Draco's hand appeared at her shoulder and he made a great show of pulling her back. "Shhh, Pansy," he whispered loudly, "the poor, dumb Gryffindor doesn't know what he's saying."

Potter rolled his eyes. Pansy ran her fingers carefully through her hair, commanding it into some semblance of order. Draco smirked.

"Well," Pansy managed after a bit, "if we're going to go, let's go."

After a fair bit of useless squabbling, they decided that Pansy should go first, then Potter, then Draco. Both Slytherins agreed that the Gryffindor should be kept between them so that one of them might catch him if he 'tried something'.

This also meant that Potter spent twenty minutes climbing up a rope with non-gloved hands, staring fixedly at anywhere that was not the bottom of Pansy Parkinson.

_And Harry thought as he climbed… _

Pansy was probably an attractive girl. No, she _was_ attractive… to other Slytherins. She had very nice legs, as Ron and he had often observed on those cold winter nights where a bit of spiked Butterbeer and hormone-crazed confessions while away the time. Actually, she had a physique like a comic book heroine: Short, busty torso and legs that seemed anatomically disproportionate to the rest of her body.

But there was something about her face… Oh, she had nice blonde hair which was always done in thick sausage-curl ringlets that framed her features nicely, and she had very pouty lips, but…. her nose turned up rather sharply and the cast to those lips was not just pouty but also, Harry thought, fundamentally unpleasant. And her eyes were icy blue and just as cold and unscrupulously Slytherin as Malfoy's.

Harry didn't like blue eyes. He liked brown. Warm and comforting like hot cocoa, with maybe just a bit of cinnamon spice to add a little adventure. Blue eyes, he thought, were glossy and lacquered. And grey eyes were just strange. Malfoy's eyes were awful.

"Potter," Pansy snarled from above him, "will you _stop_ staring at my ar-"

"Are you going to go any faster, Pansy? _I_ didn't bring gloves, you know," Malfoy said simultaneously. 

Pansy sniffed from above, and kicked Harry firmly in the ear. "Oops, sorry," she said, not sounding sorry in the least.

Harry idly wondered why he hadn't got tired and fallen off the rope by now. He'd never climbed rope before, and he didn't have any support besides the rope itself on this one, and yet all three of them were ascending tirelessly at a fair speed.

Magic, of course, Harry scolded himself. Then he wondered why they didn't just levitate themselves to wherever they were going. Thinking of that, where _were_ they going that could possibly be so high in the air?

Malfoy evidently had the same thought, and asked about it.

"Oh," said Pansy, "just to the Astronomy Tower. And before you ask a stupid question, yes, I know it's on the other side of the castle. That's why it's taking so long to climb there. This rope goes anywhere I want it to, but the distance remains the same. Look, there's the tower now."

And, indeed, Pansy was already dropping herself onto the balcony as she spoke.

Wait… _dropping_?

Well, of course – _magic_ rope again… but there was something horribly wrong, he thought, when you spend twenty minutes climbing up a rope from the second floor, and then suddenly you're dropping _down_ onto the Astronomy Tower balcony.

Harry wondered what they were doing at the Astronomy Tower, anyway. As far as he knew, it was only used for classes and the occasional, er, _ren-dez-vooz_, as Scivi Pratt* called them.

"Do you mind, Pansy," Malfoy said, his tone indicating that she had better mind, "telling me why we're on the Astronomy Tower?"

She shrugged. "It seemed as good a place as any."

Harry looked up at the pale blue sky. He really _loathed_ Malfoy. Parkinson was tolerable, if certainly not pleasant, but the only positive emotion he could conjure for Malfoy was pity. Hermione's long speeches concerning the trials Slytherins were put through and why so many of them turned to the Dark Arts had managed to instil this, at least, into him.

He supposed he could see what had inspired so much rage in Malfoy the last time he'd seen him. Deserving or not, his father had gone to prison and of course the other boy would be angry. He didn't agree in the least with Malfoy's anger – or at whom it was directed – but he certainly understand where it had come from.

Pansy snapped her fingers only centimetres away from his glasses. "Flooing Potter! Hello?"

His eyes focused.

"So where do we go from here?"

Pansy looked about, her lips twisting into a cruel smile that had been carefully modelled after Malfoy's. "We could torture the half-giant," she suggested. "Let all his pets out."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Pansy, he's a bloody _Gryffindor_. Of course we can't torture the half-giant."

She looked up at him, cross. "Oh? As if that's ever stopped us before."

Malfoy was steadily getting more and more exasperated. "Merlin's flaming eyebrows! Do you remember how enormous the dungeon was that Filch had us clean after that particular incident?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What did you _do_?" he demanded.

"Oh, we just tried to feed the youngest Creevey to the Squid. Unfortunately, it seems to have taken a liking to him, and not as food. Alas. Another planned foiled." She shook her head and the curls flew. Harry privately thought that ringlets should be outlawed on anyone over the age of five.

Harry glanced from Malfoy to Parkinson, both of whom were bickering intently over what sort of mayhem to wreak, and decided that he'd had more than enough Slytherins for one day. Besides, magical or no, he had rope burns on both hands.

He let out a terrifically exaggerated yawn, garnering both Slytherins' attention. "Mmm," he faked sleepiness, "I'm tired. Long day. I'm going to head back to my dorm."

Malfoy and Parkinson exchanged looks, held a brief mini-conference, and elected that they, too, were tired, really had no energy to pick on him too terribly, and would let him go in peace. They all headed off to their own dorms.

As they trotted off in their own directions, Malfoy just barely remembered to jog back down to his detention room and (with the door firmly propped open) retrieve his book bag.

Wouldn't want anyone to find that journal.

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*Lascivious, or Scivi, Pratt was one of the most vile and hormonally-challenged boys in school. It was rumoured that he was a descendant of Licentious the Lecher.

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Dear Journal,

Forgive me for being blindingly obvious, but Harry Potter is quite odd. Today he accompanied Pansy and I, with little complaints, all over Hogwarts via Pansy's MagiRope. I don't know why he didn't just stay in the Charms classroom until the professor came back. He could've got me into terrible trouble then, but I suppose he didn't think of it. Sometimes I love the stupidity of Gryffindors.

Also, he has grown to be less of an enemy, which is severely annoying. You always know where you stand with a good enemy. (Or, even better, a **bad** enemy.) But Potter won't rise to the usual things – like, for instance, Pansy kicking him in the ear – and I don't know how to handle him.

I am almost positive that the Giant Squid hold no special attachment to Potter. Perhaps we should instigate **Operation: Squid Fodder 2.0**?It would eliminate many problems.

For instance, Granger would be horribly grief-stricken and her grades would drop and I would lead the class and win position as Head Boy.

Or Slytherin, as it should have for the past five years, would win the Quidditch Cup.

Or Snape would cheer up so much that he would take a good, long shower.

Or Lord V. would be so overjoyed that he'd stop killing people.

In short, many problems could be solved by Potter's untimely demise. So I have theorised for many years, but no one has allowed me to experiment with this. Most unfortunate.

On a side note, I think I will try to convince Pansy never to play dress-up again. Her black ensemble today was quite frightening. I think I shall be scarred for life.

I'm in a bit of a whimsical mood, which is odd for me. Well, it was an odd day. Climbing up/down a rope next to Potter and an eccentrically dressed Pansy. Whatever shall we think of next?

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Dear Journal,

Got letter from Mum today. Father is getting the Kiss. Knew it.

Yeah, they've still got three or four Dementors left… Not enough for guarding duty, but just enough to Kiss.

Don't know what to think. Potter's going to **gloat**. And Father will be…dead. Well, not dead, but close enough.

It doesn't seem real, you know? I mean, he's my bleeding **FATHER**. He can't **die**. He was alive… I mean, he hasn't been ill or anything. And I know he's going to die and **everyone** knows he's going to die and there's nothing I can do about it.

It's so hopeless.

I've been trying not to think about it. I've been thinking 'It's okay; he's Lucius Malfoy! Of course he's going to get off! He wouldn't allow it otherwise!' Except he isn't. He's going to die.

It's so **stupid**. He's so stupid. The Death Eaters! Of course he'd be killed – if not by one side then the other! It's so stupid!

It'll be in the paper tomorrow. Everyone will know about it. Weasley will gloat. Granger will try to shut him up and look at me with her abominable pity. Potter will be as he has been lately: distant and uncaring of our rivalry.

I wish I could pound his face into the wall. I wish I could twist my fingers in his hair and hit and hit and hit and hit until it was bloody and you couldn't see his stupid stupid scar for all the others. Then he wouldn't look at me like that – like we had something in common! 

He was angry last year and that's how it should be! Angry! But this stupid oh-poor-Malfoy act is awful and fake and by Merlin, I just want to grab him and bash his stupid pitying face in!

Ugh. Calm down. It's a good thing this is private, or I'd be expelled for Thinking Evil Thoughts or something. Calm down.

It's just… Father's going to **die**. He'll be dead tomorrow. He's my Father! He drives me mad and he's made loads of bad decisions and he's scary as hell, but he's my Father! And he's going to **die**!

Far too emotional. Not going to write anymore. Filling up pages with useless rubbish.

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Dear Journal,

He's dead. [water stains, something incomprehensible due to running ink]

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My Father [incomprehensible]_ forever. He's gone. I can't _[incomprehensible]

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Not writing any more.

Draco pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. He would not cry. He would not cry. He was crying already, of course, but by denying it he hoped that he would stop. Unfortunately, the pressure of his hands only irritated his eyes further and the tears flowed.

His breath hitched between sobs. Sobs? _Sobs_? Crying was one thing, but sobbing quite another. And he couldn't stop.

No one would see him, of course – he'd locked the door and charmed it repeatedly to make sure of that – but it was the principle of the thing.

He picked up the quill again.

_I shouldn't be like this. I should write Mother. She's devastated. She needs to talk to someone._

Damn it, he's my Father! He can't be dead!

Ridiculous statement. Of course he's dead. Denying it won't make it any less true. Still…

I've got to stop all of this emotional angst. It's awful. I can't mope around, sulking. I'm Draco Malfoy. I'm Malfoy. Can you imagine what Potter would think, coming in here now?

That's it. No crying. Malfoys don't cry; isn't that one of the top ten rules in the Malfoy Code of Honour?

Code of Honour, hah.

No crying.

He shut the book and shoved it into his bag, and then sat for a while, chin resting on his palms. He could taste his tears still, and he knew that his face must be red and swollen.

After a while he stood up, performed a quick Cleansing Charm, unlocked and de-spelled the door, and left.

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Dear Journal,

Potter's been looking at me all day with those big pitying eyes. Have I mentioned the intense urge to shove him face-first into a wall?

Weasley caught my eye in Care of Magical Creatures today and started waving around the Prophet (it ran an article on his Kiss, of course) and was about to open his fat mouth when both Potter and Granger grabbed his arms at the same time.

I WILL NOT BE PITIED!

Crabbe and Goyle look tired. Their fathers were arrested too. They haven't gotten the Kiss yet, but it's only a matter of time. If it weren't hypocritical, I'd feel sorry for them.

Pansy is a nervous wreck, flying about every which-way to makes sure 'I'm happy'. It's more irritating than Potter, I swear. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her til her hair is straight.

Sent Mother an owl, asking about the Manor and her health and the servants and such. I hope she's alright. She looked untidy and older than her years throughout the summer, and I'm worried for her.

McGonagall assigned a lot of homework. I'd better do it.

****

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Harry sighed and pushed a captured pawn around with one bony finger. Ron was still deciding what moves to make. Brilliant at the game he might be, but he took _forever_.

Ginny clattered down the stairs, head bent down to see the clasp of the necklace she was trying to manipulate, and paused as she reached Harry.

"You're too thin," she said, and handed him a chocolate frog that she appeared to have hidden in her cloak. "Eat more." She commanded, and quickly vanished out the portrait hole.

Harry sighed and watched her leave, turning back to Ron with raised eyebrows.

Ron shrugged. "Don't ask me. She may be my sister, but she's a girl and therefore completely mad. Hermione's best friends with her lately, though." He finally moved the rook and took Harry's bishop. He looked up, grinning, and paused when he saw Harry's forlorn expression. "What's wrong?"

"Just thinking."

Ron scowled. "Tell me it's not about Malfoy again."

"I'm just… His father died. He's got to feel awful."

"Forget the girls! You're the one who's mad! Who's been after you because of your father for six years, then?"

"Oh, I know. I still hate him. I just feel sorry for him. Actually, I think it's annoying him more than the enmity ever did, so it's fine."

Ron scrutinised him. "When did you start using words like 'enmity'?"

Harry laughed. "Hermione's finally rubbing off on me." He pushed his pawn forward, not really caring that it left his queen open. "But, you know… He's a terrible prat who deserves to be hanged by his toes from the ceiling, and I would rather be eaten alive by wild hippogriffs than spend any amount of time with him, but I do feel rather awful. I didn't even know my father when he died. Can you imagine if I did? And if I knew that he was going to die before he did? I remember what it felt like with _your _father, when that snake attacked him. That was horrible. Malfoy must feel like that."

His best friend rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated. "Oh, stop it. Malfoy doesn't have feelings. They were removed at birth because it might get in the way of his Slytherin-ness. And that was _my _father, anyway. If Lucius Malfoy were my dad and he died, I'd be throwing a party!" Ron said, and took Harry's queen. Then he looked more closely at the board. "Oh… oops. Didn't even see that. Sorry, Harry. Check and mate."

Harry tipped his king over without really looking at it . "Right. Yeah, I suppose I wasn't thinking how awful his father was. Then again, Malfoy's awful so he might miss his father's awfulness." He appeared contemplative.

Ron snorted. "Don't think it works like that. The thing about being a git, you see, is that you hate everyone, even other gits. That's why gits are gits. Otherwise, you're running on the assumption that gits have friends and that means Malfoy has friends, and I just can't believe that."

He was completely serious and Harry had to grin.

****

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Dear Journal,

How many students receive a letter from Lord V.?

Well, not Lord V. **exactly**, but from one of his right-hand minions, which is close enough.

Summarised, it says:

**Master Malfoy,**

Since your father has now, unfortunately, snuffed it, we wish to request that you sell your soul to the devil (aka Lord V.) in return for a big stinking pile of NOTHING! Your ancestors were very evil and did lots of Dark Arts, and we hope that you'll follow in their footsteps. Give my regards to anyone who is interested in becoming a Death Eater, and write everyone else down on a blacklist.

Our thanks,

The Bloody Stupid Minions of Lord V.

Their version went on for three rolls, but otherwise it's pretty much the same. Can you believe it? The day after my Father's death and they want me to join their 'noble cause'. They're calling it **noble**? And here I thought the whole point of being a D.E. was to escape nobility.

My list of people I want to bash face-first into a wall now covers an entire roll of parchment.

****

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Hermione's eyes seemed to snap back and forth in their sockets as she scanned _The Daily Prophet_. After a few minutes, she set it down. "Another attack. Six killed, two kidnapped. Aurors didn't get there in time, so no Death Eater casualties. Three of those killed were muggleborns, as was one of those kidnapped. A message had been carved into the wall: 'Mudbloods Die Slowly'. Fudge is fairly ineffectual, but the Aurors are doing all they can. Goyle's father was sentenced and is to receive the Kiss on Wednesday. They move fast."

Harry's eyes were closed, as if in pain. "Anything else?"

"Besides more claims that they never doubted either you or Dumbledore? No. That's all. It doesn't say who the victims were, though."

"That means there's something odd about it," Ron said authoritatively. "They never tell you everything if there's something odd about it."

Hermione peered down her nose at him. "Honestly! I think you've been spending too much time with Luna lately, Ron! Conspiracy theories everywhere – hmph."

"I'm just saying," Ron protested, "that they don't tell us everything!"

The two launched into a hearty debate over whether or not this was true, and Harry sighed. He stared glumly at his orange juice and prodded the glass with his wand. The water rippled, but nothing further happened.

Seamus peered over his shoulder. "I figured out how to turn orange juice into vodka if you're interested," he offered.

Harry blanched at the thought of vodka and porridge. "Um, no, thank you. Unless you can manage butterbeer."

Seamus shook his head. "Can only do butterbeer with gingerbeer, sorry. But I _did_ finally manage water into rum."

"No thank you," Harry repeated firmly and Seamus wandered off to drape himself over Ginny, who was ignoring him. Harry sneaked a glance at her out of the corners of his eyes. 

"She's seeing Dean still," Hermione said, startling Harry nearly out of his seat. "They've been writing to each other all summer. Oh, don't look at me like that, Harry! I can tell when you're _looking_ at a girl. You're the most obvious person in the world, you know."

"I was not _looking_ at Ginny! At least, not like that," Harry protested.

Hermione smirked as if she were omniscient. "Oh, of course not. But they're going through a rough spot right now and it would be best if you spoke up soon."

Harry felt the urge to throw his rapidly cooling porridge in Hermione's face. She thought she knew absolutely _everything_.

"Shut up," he growled instead. Her brows drew together and she looked rather hurt, but said nothing. It seemed as though she had decided that Harry's moods were his own problems and that she would not take any notice of them.

Ginny abruptly rose from her seat, sent Seamus a scathing glare, and stomped out of the great hall, toast in hand. A folded scrap of parchment fell unobtrusively from her palm to Harry's lap. 

He waited a minute, until he was sure Ron had occupied Hermione's attention, and unfolded it under the table. It read:

__

Don't mind Hermione. She's just sticking her nose in things, as usual. Loudly, too. (hehe) Don't worry. I and everyone else know that you don't have any feelings for me.

-Ginny

P.S. But maybe you could do a jealous-reaction thing to scare Seamus off? Dean won't do it because Seamus is his friend and he's too shy anyway. Thanks.

-G.

He smiled slightly, cheered a bit, and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. He turned to Ron and asked what class they had next.

Ron shrugged, a trickle of maple syrup drizzling down his chin. He wiped it off, chewed a bit, and spoke. "Ah, I don't know. Oy, Hermione!" he called, and she looked up from a homework assignment she was reading over. "What class do we have next?"

"Defence with Professor West," she said without even having to think, and resumed scanning the paper for errors.

"Defence," Ron repeated, making a face. "She's so _creepy_. Ugh. Makes my skin crawl. She stares at you, and you get the feeling like she's looking out the other side."

"You complain at _everything_," Hermione snapped, standing up. "I wish you wouldn't. It would make your company _far _more tolerable." And with that she swung her bag over her shoulder and stormed out.

Ron scowled. "Girls. I will never, _ever_ understand them. Do you know what's wrong with her?" Harry shook his head. "Well, neither do I. It's a complete mystery. I mean, you're having a nice, normal conversation and all of a sudden they hate you and are never speaking to you again!" He waved a fork at Harry. "I tell you what, when I get married my wife will never do that! When we argue, it'll be rationally! She won't just storm off…" Ron continued on this vein for quite some time while Harry stared glumly into his congealing porridge and thought about things.

He wondered what it would be like to have a proper relationship. Last year he'd wondered about being kissed, and then he was kissed… And it wasn't quite what he'd expected. It was so… _soggy_. Well, that was probably more Cho than anything else, but still. He didn't want timid, damp kisses with someone mourning an old boyfriend.

He pictured slamming someone against a wall – the image he conjured was something like a perfected cross between Hermione and Ginny – and running his fingers through her hair, kissing wildly. But Ginny was taken (not that he was really interested in her anyway; she was a wonderful person but far too much a sister to him) and Hermione was, well, _Hermione_. Both girls were pretty enough, but he couldn't imagine an actual relationship with either.

His eyes drifted across the tables, looking for someone that he could fit appropriately into his snog-her-up-against-a-wall fantasy, and his eyes settled, for some odd reason, on Pansy Parkinson. She was tossing her curls and laughing wildly at something that long-haired boy, Blaise Zabini, had said. He couldn't imagine kissing her either – for one thing, she was at least two inches taller than he with her shoes on – and couldn't imagine a relationship in the slightest. She was an awful girl, he thought.

He glanced at Zabini (who looked somewhat like a girl himself, Harry thought), and then at Crabbe, Goyle, Bulstrode, Pratt, and Malfoy. He looked at Malfoy for quite a long time. He wondered what Malfoy was thinking. He wondered if Malfoy really _was_ grief-stricken over his father, or if he didn't care at all.

Malfoy was the simplest person he knew, at times - pure malice and petty, childish revenge - and the greatest enigma at others.

Ron jostled his elbow, apparently finished with his tirade against women. "Hey there – you finished?" Harry nodded his assent and followed Ron to class.

****

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__

Dear Journal,

Another letter from D.E.s today. Doesn't Lord V. ever get tired? Here, I'll copy this one out exactly.

**Master Malfoy:**

The ties between your family and The Dark Lord are strong and ancient, and we under no circumstances, wish them to be broken.

Service under The Dark Lord is guaranteed to be rewarding. What is it you desire, Master Malfoy? Power? Prestige? Love of a certain young lady? I am aware that you are at that age. Whatever you desire, The Dark Lord can grant you. His power is limitless and His reach is all-encompassing.

I mentioned that you 'were at that age'. I was referring to the age at which the lust in young bodies becomes strong, but it is the age of many other things as well.

You are at a critical point, Master Malfoy. You may choose our side – the true side – or those who oppose us. I would wish you to know that our Cause has been pursued and fought for by the greatest wizards of all time, and now is when this, our dream, becomes a reality.

Victory is tangible. We are close to winning, to triumphing once and for all over our oppressors. We will rise again, the pure-blooded and strong-hearted families of old, take what is rightfully ours and reap the bounty of the carefully-planted seeds we have sown.

Join us.

-B.L.

Lestrange, of course. Carefully-planted seeds indeed. I do agree with some of the D.E. principals – pureblood supremacy and complete separation from muggles, etc. – but this sounds altogether too much like a speech Borgin would make. Lust in young bodies! Love a certain young lady? Who the hell does she mean? Pansy?

They've already taken my father! Can't they leave me alone?

****

.

**The fire crackled green and blue in the darkness, and the heat of it made the images around him waver. The circle of hooded robes shivered and shimmered, at times only grey vapour and at times as sinister and deadly as they truly were.**

"Death Eaters! Children! The time of our conquest draws near!" And then he felt a presence in his mind… An alien presence…

Everything – the voices, the images, his own thoughts – dimmed and faded until he was in a murmuring world of greys and couldn't think… Couldn't concentrate. Occasionally, something would drift in clear and strong. As soon as it did, though, the greyness would clamp around him with threefold the strength of before.

"Rise again!" Grey. "Lord and Master…" Grey. Long, pale hands. Grey. "Escape from…" Grey. "The trials…" Grey. "_Crucio_!" Grey. "… by the blood that binds I will…" Grey. "The final battle." Grey.

And then the talking stopped and the grey cleared and two slitted red eyes were staring at him, through him, and those long, brittle fingers were reaching for his mind…

Harry bolted awake, not screaming but letting out soft, gasping cries. His hair was plastered to his forehead from sweat. He shivered convulsively.

He tried to roll out of bed and stand, but his knees almost gave way under him and he had to catch hold of the heavy curtains to prevent falling. Nausea crawled its way up his throat like a particularly loathsome toad and he sat on the floor, hands pressed over his mouth and scar.

His scar felt as if it were being crawled upon by a thousand tiny insects. Voldemort had come so close - _so close_! – to invading his mind. To learning his secrets… and Dumbledore's. Harry closed his eyes and waited for the shaking and sickness to pass.

"_Lumos_," said a voice, and a light blinked on behind a curtain. The curtain was quickly pushed aside and Ron, all arms and legs in too-small pyjamas, stepped into the light.

"Harry? Mate? Are you alright?" Harry made a vague noise of affirmation and nodded. "You don't _look_ alright," Ron said, and stepped closer. Harry tried to move his hand away from his scar as unobtrusively as possible. Unfortunately, Ron – so oblivious with some things, so quick with others – noticed. "Your scar…? Did you dream of V-v-You Know Who?"

Finding lying rather pointless, Harry nodded again. 

"We'd better go to Dumbledore," Ron said immediately, "or at least McGonagall. Merlin…" He passed his hand over his face and through his hair worriedly.

"It wasn't anything," Harry protested. "I couldn't hear anything important, and neither could Voldemort – Ron, honestly – hear anything from me. I'll tell him in the morning. I… I just want to sleep tonight. I'm tired, and there're two tests tomorrow."

It took some convincing, but Ron finally accepted it and _Nox_-ed his wand. Harry closed his eyes and hoped for better dreams.

****

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AN: Okay, what do you think? Please – feedback!

Big Schnoogles to:

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Lily, for being as wonderful as ever and reading my work before everyone else.

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Kevin, just for being a friend. Even though he'll never read this.

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Snowspike, for the fantastic art! *grabs and huggles*

And **Cardigan Pantalones, The Well-Dressed Editor** for also betaing wonderfully and being a fantastic help with Latin. (Next chapter!)


	2. Death Eaters, Detention, and Drunkenness

****

The Malfoy Code 

Death Eaters, Detentions, and Drunkenness

.

__

Kthok!, Kthok!, Kthok!!

Draco Malfoy winced at the noise and threw a pillow against the door. "The Dark Lord Reborn, Parkinson, it's midnight. Go to _bed_!"

The knocking paused, and Pansy was silent for a minute, pondering, before asking: "How did you know it was me?"

"Because you're the only person who's bloody _stupid_ enough to wake me up at this hour!"

"It's important," she said. "Really important. Come out – I need to talk to you."

Malfoy shook his head and climbed off the bed, flinging on his dressing robe and stuffing his wand in its pocket as he made toward the door. He opened it and was vaguely surprised to see that Pansy was fully dressed and made up. She was also wearing her very best set of black robes and her hair had been ironed straight and pulled into a ponytail. He closed the door behind him and leaned on the frame.

"Look," she said, "it's a… you know." He raised an eyebrow and she glared at him. "You _know_!" her voice dipped to a course whisper. "a _Death Eater meeting_. I'm being initiated into Young Order tonight." Her fingers, the nails expertly manicured, wrapped around his forearm. "You've got to come."

"I have no intention of being imprisoned and Kissed, thank you."

She was cross. "Honestly, you won't be! Your father was very… obvious about what he was doing. Arrogant. Everyone _knew_ that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater. Besides, the Young-"

"Parkinson? Malfoy? What the hell are you _doing_?" 

Pansy and Draco, apparently, had forgotten that Malfoy had four other roommates. Blaise, Scivi, Vince, and Greg were all standing behind them, crowding around the doorway, and looking particularly cross. Well, Greg was looking a bit blank, as always, but the rest were suitably annoyed.

"You could," said Blaise, "at least have the decency to talk where we can't here you."

Vince nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Or at least invite us."

"Or at least not wake us up," said Greg.

"Or at least wear something low-cut," said Scivi. Pansy backhanded him and turned to the rest of the company.

"Well. Secret's out. Hands up, all who want to be Death Eaters." Vince appeared pensive for a moment, then raised his hand to a slightly unenthusiastic shoulder height.

"Mum's depending on me," he said.

Greg looked at Vince, then at Pansy and Draco, and slowly raised his too. Scivi gave Pansy a positively carnal leer and raised his own.

"Blaise?" she said, pointedly ignoring Scivi.

He shrugged. "My girlfriend's muggleborn. Oh, don't look at me like that. I really like her. And… I know this is horribly Hufflepuffian, but I don't want to throw it away over something stupid. And _yes_, Pansy, I think it's stupid. You do realise you're all going to have your arses kicked by the likes of the Weasleys and Longbottom, don't you?"

Pansy sneered. "Right. So we've got one who's joining because he wants to please his mum, one because all his friends are, one because he wants to rape and pillage and look down the front of my robes, one who's too henpecked to, and one whom I'm still trying to convince. You lot are pathetic."

Draco sighed. "I'll come with you, but I'm not guaranteeing anything. And it's only because of you, Pansy."

She rolled her eyes. "How flattered I am. The great Draco Malfoy condescends to accompany me." Her voice lost some of its caustic tone and grew mildly concerned. "What's _wrong_ with you, Draco? You've been… odd… lately. I don't understand why, but you've been distant and haven't been insulting people or making sarcastically witty remarks. It's making me _worried_."

Draco sighed. "Pansy… sod off."

The other male Slytherins could feel the emotions brewing and discreetly vanished into their dorm. Greg had to forcibly pull Scivi away.

The door clicked shut behind them and Pansy hesitantly lay her palm against Draco's cool cheek. "Draco, we're best friends. You know I'd do anything for you. Tell me what's going on." She was standing very, very close and their chests and hips very nearly touched.

Pansy had been nursing a soft crush for Draco for almost five years, now. He was such a friend to her that it hardly ever slipped into the open except in exposed moments such as these, but when it did she could feel the blood pounding in her ears and all the old prepubescent fantasies resurfacing with a tingling rush.

Draco, while not aware of Pansy's feelings, had most certainly noticed how close they were standing. And that Pansy was tall enough that he didn't really have to bend down at all. His last thought was that, if nothing else, she'd stop asking questions.

He closed the distance and her arms flung around him in the pent-up lust of a long-enduring crush. She was half frenzied, and he had to press her to him quite tightly before she'd calm down and let herself be kissed properly.

It was a little awkward. She tried to run her fingers through his hair, only to discover that it was sticky from yesterday's gel and not at all romantic. He tried to involve his tongue, which he'd never really tried before, and it was a bit clumsy. They kept smashing noses, and she had to pull away for breath several times.

Overall, though, it was a good first kiss.

And yes, it _was_ a first kiss, at least for him. Pansy had tried a few snogs with a few other boys before – though she'd never had a real boyfriend – but this was his first. It was quite nice. 

Besides, it was… right. He'd always sort of known that Pansy was set on him, and that everyone was set on having Pansy for him. He was not-at-all disappointed with this. Pansy was fairly good-looking, and she was intelligent. She had her faults, of course – she whined too much and was far too melodramatic – but she was a good girl of pure blood and his parents would approve.

Draco didn't even think about 'parents' no longer being plural. His mind was otherwise occupied.

They broke the kiss at last, and Pansy was beaming wildly. Her Lip-Colouring Charm had worn off and some of the magic had transferred itself to Draco, which she found quite amusing.

She hugged him tightly and stepped back a bit, still grinning. "So," she said, "what does this make us?"

His eyebrows quirked and he sank down to one knee, taking one of her hands in his own. "Pansy Louise Parkinson," he said softly, mock-seriously, "will you do me the honour of being my girlfriend?"

She laughed, immensely pleased, and hauled him up to a standing position. "Malfoy! Yes, of course!" 

They kissed again.

****

.

It is rather more difficult to refuse your girlfriend than your best friend, Draco later reflected. This could be a problem.

He was standing in what appeared to be a large, splendidly decorated underground ballroom. No one was dancing, though; they had massed into a large semicircle around the Dark Lord, the hooded robes transforming them into a sea of ominous black. He too was dressed in black – Scivi's cousin had transfigured their robes for them.

Pansy reached for his hand and they laced their fingers together underneath the cover of the voluminous sleeves. Her grip was uncomfortably tight and he knew that she was terribly nervous about her coming initiation. He pulled her close in front of him so that he could whisper into her ear.

"He's terribly long-winded, isn't he," Draco remarked mildly, watching their Lord. "Worse than Binns, even. Honestly, I can't see why you'd want to join. It's like History of Magic, only with murder and torture thrown in."

She nearly squeaked with shock, and sunk an elbow firmly and painfully into his ribs. "Malfoy! You're in the presence of _Death Eaters_! You'll be _Crucio_'d!"

He laughed softly, clearly amused. "No one can hear us," he said, and his fingers played at the heavy robes draping across her navel. "There are too many people. No one cares. Shhh…"

She sighed and squirmed gently in his arms. "Oh, you're worse than Scivi," she whispered, then made a soft gurgling noise as his lips found the line of her jaw.

"Shh," he said, though she didn't really hear him.

Neither of them were really listening to what was being said. It wasn't very important, anyway – 'We shall triumph!' this and 'Die, Potter!' that. There is something to be said for teenage hormones in that they spare you from boredom.

****

.

"Young Miss Pansy of the Parkinson Family, please come forward," read the silver-handed Death Eater to the Dark Lord's left.

Pansy started, surprised. Her name had, evidently, been first on the list. She disentangled herself from Draco and moved forward through the crowd, which parted respectfully for her. She reached the dais and stepped onto it, dipping down to a humbling kneel as she did so, head bowed.

The Dark Lord extended an impossibly long, pale arm and pushed her hood back. His fingers, so skeletal, caressed her scalp, combing through the tightly-pulled-back blonde hair.

"Rise, Miss Parkinson," he said. The sibilant s's hissed slightly, adding to his serpentine appearance. His presence was suffocating.

She wondered suddenly if she really wanted to do this. It was surely too late to back out, but perhaps if she ran fast enough she could escape? Dumbledore would take her in…

Of course, it was only a fleeting fantasy. She stood.

"Extend your arm, Miss Parkinson." She complied, and the death's grip fingers locked around her wrist, pushing the sleeves to her elbow. His other hand clutched his slender wand, which he pressed into her skin. The pressure was vaguely uncomfortable, and she shifted on her feet.

"_Ecce Morsmordre_," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper.

At first she was surprised. Wasn't something supposed to happen? Wasn't there supposed to be excruciating pain?

Then something _did_ happen.

She thought it was a trick of the light – nothing had changed about his wand at all. Then it moved again, and she looked closer. Yes, there was most definitely a tiny snake coiled around it. She raised her hand, the fingers trembling slightly from anticipation and fear, to touch it – to pet it. It hissed at her, the miniature fangs wickedly sharp and the flat, forked tongue almost a caricature of what a snake's should be.

It reared up, two inches tall, and she saw that the belly was not yellow and smooth like any other snake she'd seen, but the same gem-like green as the rest of its shining, iridescent body. And then it dived forward, so quickly she hardly noticed, and her arm, just above the wrist, split with pain.

The hand which was not being held flew to her mouth and she bit the heel of her palm, closing her eyes. It was _inside_ her. It was crawling _inside her arm_.

She thought of Draco. He never cries, she thought. He'd be disgusted if you cried. She thought of her father and felt his gaze burning into her back. She thought of Vince and Greg and the way they rather looked up to her as the only female (barring Millicent) associated with them. She thought of Scivi and how he was probably trying to look up her skirt, even now.

She almost laughed, which would have been very bad. One is not supposed to laugh when there is a live snake crawling inside your arm. 

His wand brushed her arm again, though he said nothing, and the most incredibly odd feeling passed through her. She felt the skin on her forearm bulge and ripple and then settle flat again. She looked down.

The snake was a tattoo, a mere illustration, on the pale skin of her arm. There was no skull yet – this was only the Young Order's Mark.

"Welcome to the cause, Miss Parkinson," he said, almost gently. The wand drew away and his grip on her wrist relaxed. The whole ordeal had taken perhaps a minute and a half.

She moved to step off the dais and nearly fell, her muscles were so tightly constricted. She made it though, her legs loosening as she moved along, her eyes roaming for the familiar glint of pale, pale blonde. Not that she would find it very easily, with everyone cloaked and hooded, but still.…

He caught her shoulder and she turned. He was smiling very slightly – it was almost a smirk. "You did a good job," he said mildly.

She glared. That was _not_ what your boyfriend – newly instated into the position or not – was supposed to say after you undergo an incredibly painful ordeal.

He laughed. "Don't look at me like that, Parkinson. You _did_ do a good job. Next time, though, be sure to kick him before he tries to feed your arm to a snake though, alright?"

She scowled. He was supposed to… to hug her and whisper comforting words or something.

She wondered at her foolishness. Of _course_ he wasn't going to hug her. He was a Malfoy. A shoulder-squeeze was probably the only thing short of an outright snog she was going to get. And even that was pretty affectionate, considering.

They were still standing in front of each other, both not knowing quite what to say to the other, when a feather-light tap on her shoulder startled her away from him. Another mysterious, cloaked figure was standing behind her.

The man's – at least, she assumed so, given the height and build – head inclined in respect and he spoke. "Pardon me, Miss Parkinson, but Our Lord wishes to speak with Master Malfoy."

She stepped sideways to give Draco some room. The hooded man gestured to follow, and Draco obeyed silently. He didn't look back at her as he passed and she felt inexplicably sad. Well, they'd only been an item (was that what they were?) for perhaps an hour and a half – what could she possibly expect?

She tried to keep track of Draco and the cloaked interloper, but both were now fully hooded and all of the black hooded figures blended into one.

****

.

"Young Master Malfoy," the man called Wormtail announced. The Death Eater standing next to him looked up and tread firmly on his foot. "Ah, ah, that is, _Master_ Malfoy. Get _off_, Moon!" He cleared his throat nervously.

Draco ignored the slip and glanced around. They were standing in a relatively secluded corner of the room, away from the dais. He was vaguely surprised at how many Death Eaters there were – he hadn't thought there to be so many! Perhaps a hundred milled around aimlessly, most holding Dire and Serious conversations. He supposed that, now that the Dark Lord was posing a threat to the wizardring world and was once again widely publicised, there would be quite a few new recruits. Pansy had mentioned that they initiated new members of the Young Order every two weeks and the Full Order every six months, so he supposed that made sense. They had somewhere around seven or eight just tonight.

"Master Malfoy," the Dark Lord said softly, drawing Draco's attention back to the matter at hand, "I understand that you are… considering… joining our noble cause?"

Draco affirmed that this was so, discreetly watching Wormtail and Moon out of the corner of his eye. Both of the Dark Lord's personal guards were reputed to have assassinated several people who had been conversing unawares with the Dark Lord.

"Yes. But you are not sure? You have… doubts?"

Draco hesitated. It was, perhaps, not wise to draw attention to the fact that he wasn't fully dedicated to The Cause quite yet. "Not doubts," he settled for at last, "so much as questions."

The Dark Lord's head inclined slightly and he regarded Draco through slightly narrowed eyes, the striking red colour just visible underneath the lowered lids. "Then I shall answer. There are, of course, secrets, but I trust you know not to ask such things that would not yield answers."

Well, yes. Draco had plenty of practice at asking the correct questions from the long sessions spent in his Father's office. "Of course, My Lord."

The long, ivory-coloured fingers tapped impatiently on their wand, and Draco struggled to think of a question to ask. Finally, he settled on one that all adults liked. "Will it interfere with my schoolwork?"

Moon roared with appreciative laughter and clapped Draco on the shoulder so firmly that his knees wobbled. "Hah!" he barked, "That's Lucius' lad all right! Always thinking ahead! Good boy! Going to be Head Boy, eh? Keep those marks up!"

A hand, almost fragile in its bony slenderness, rose and a wand levelled on Moon. "_Crucio_."

Moon let out a brief, shocked screech and dropped to his knees. His large, meaty hands struggled briefly with his hood before managing to draw it over his face. Ah, yes, of course. The Death Eater Hood's Two Purposes: To Conceal the Owner's Identity, and To Conceal the Owner's Shameful Tears.

"Do _not_ interrupt my guest or me," said the Dark Lord rather tonelessly, and lifted his wand. Moon sagged in relief. "Leave us." His gaze turned back to Draco as Moon hastened to obey. 

And Draco thought, _How can he cast the _Cruciatus_ on one of his loyal Death Eaters – who didn't do anything besides be vaguely_ _annoying – and then ask me to join when I know I'd get the same treatment?_

The Dark Lord's gaze refocused on Draco. "I apologise for the interruption," he said softly. Draco had to strain to hear him. "It will not happen again. As to your schoolwork – no, I do not believe so. And if it does… you will be a member of the Young Order. You are expected to attend as many meetings as you can but, as a student who is under the watch of the Hogwarts Staff constantly, your attendance would not be enforced." He paused for a moment, then continued.

"I see that you are disturbed by my treatment of Moon. You think me terribly harsh. I am not. Moon has behaved in a manner unfitting of his high station for quite a while now and he needed a reminder. Besides, his interruption was no accident. I do not punish accidents so harshly. I believe that Moon has visions of grandeur – he wishes to become my, ah, 'right hand man'. He does not realise how ill-fit he is for that position." The mumbling, hissing conversations all around him seemed to fade further and further into the background as the Dark Lord spoke. Whatever motivated him – genius or insanity – was powerful and it held Draco's full attention with this power.

"Your father… he was a strong man. A man whom Moon was not fit to serve, let alone replace. I had hoped… But no. You are unsure." He sighed, and Draco was mildly irritated. If the Dark Lord was going to play games, he should play them with a little more subtlety. It was quite obvious that the man was trying to lure him with the prospect of his father's high position.

"It's a big decision," he said, and then felt like sticking his head in a tub of acid. What an utterly _stupid_ answer! He sounded like Ron bloody Weasley!

The Dark Lord, however, took no notice. His fingers danced along the edge of his wand, as they always seemed to, but he did not raise it. "Very well, very well… Your magical skills are very promising, Mr Malfoy, as it the prospect of your loyalty. The Malfoy family has sided with me and my predecessors for hundreds of years. I would not want that tradition broken. I make you this offer: join and be initiated as a full Death Eater. There will be a few preliminary trials, of course, but you will not have to undergo a year or more in the Young Order. We have never allowed a student to join our ranks before, so I hope you appreciate this unique opportunity."

"I'll think about it," Draco promised. And indeed he would. It _was_ a generous offer, and he was, despite himself, terribly flattered by the Dark Lord's praise. If his father were not dead he would have accepted without hesitation, but, well… He couldn't help but think of Blaise's flippant comment about 'getting their arses kicked by the likes of Weasley and Potter'. That was not something Draco looked forward to.

He repeated, "I will certainly think about it." The Dark Lord inclined his head in a stiff acknowledgement. Draco sunk to one knee, head bowed, and then rose at the Lord's gesture and departed to find Pansy. He had a lot to talk – and think – about.

****

.

Pansy and Draco arrived via portkey very, very late. Pansy's face was buried in Draco's neck and she appeared to be holding a one-sided conversation. Her arms were looped around his chest and his around her waist in an effort to keep balance. It didn't work, and they fell over promptly.

They were very, _very_ drunk.

About an hour after Draco's conversation with the Dark Lord one of the younger Death Eaters had appeared with what seemed to be limitless alcohol of every type imaginable. Neither Pansy nor Draco had ever had more than a glass of wine or champagne on a special dinner, and they seized the opportunity to get smashed with vigour.

Pansy clung to Draco's tie with hand, nearly choking him as she dragged herself into a sitting position. "Whoops!" she giggled, "Hahaha. Think I may be fair-fair sloshed. 's quite an int'restin' hexperience. Whee!" Her mouth and face were sticky with some unidentifiable drink and her hair, now loose from the ponytail, was glued to her cheeks.

Draco – apparently a quiet, passionate drunk – attempted to kiss her. Pansy moved to the side a bit and his reflexes were considerably slowed, so he missed. She giggled madly and pushed him down flat on the stone floor of his bedroom, swinging her legs over his hips and sitting on him.

Draco glanced around. " 'swhere's everyone."

She leaned forward and planted her lips on the side of his nose. "Away. Don' care."

His fingers fumbled madly at the complex tie of her robes. He made no progress. She giggled into his cheek and reached down to remove it herself. She had no better luck.

"Bugger!" she said, whipped out her wand, and prodded the tie with it until her robes caught fire. They both shrieked and she tipped over backwards to lie on his legs as she beat out the flame. The ties, at least, had been burnt off, and the robes had been too thick for her to be hurt much.

She sat up and climbed back over to Draco, who made busy with removing the now-tieless robes and was just puzzling over the correct way to remove a girl's camisole (witches have spells instead of bras and usually wear some kind of undershirt) when the door swung open.

"Mr Malfoy! Miss Parkinson!" If Draco and Pansy had been within fifty miles of sober they would have dearly appreciated the unique expression that graced Professor Snape's face.

"Whoops!" said Pansy, and laughed.

"What _is_ the meaning of this?"

"We're unabrated. Inabrated. Inabrationationated," said Pansy.

"Drunk," Draco confirmed.

Pansy nodded. "Drunker 'n we've ever been before."

"But not," said Draco, as if this were a crucial matter, "Drunker 'n we ever will be."

Snape did not change expression. "I'm sure you will achieve a greater state of drunkenness in the future," he said, and pointed his wand at the two. "_Sobrietus_," he commanded.

The two sixth years jerked once each, and then sat silent for a minute, before they each made gurgling noises and threw up all over one another.

"_Scourgify_," Snape said, and there was a brief smell of lemon-scented soap. Pansy's hair unstuck itself and both of them appeared quite a bit cleaner.

Draco groaned and tried to raise himself into a sitting position. As Pansy was still sitting on him this was impossible and he let his head fall to the floor again with a distinct 'thunk'. He made a sound like an amorous hippo.

"Miss Parkinson. Kindly remove yourself from Mr Malfoy and make yourself decent." Pansy looked down and squeaked, her arms flying about herself as she scrambled off Draco and retrieved her lost robes. She attempted to fasten them but realised that the cord was burnt to ashes.

Draco climbed to his feet rather slowly, wincing slightly as a swarm of sparrows seemed to pass through his brain. "Prof… Professor," He managed, once the wing-flapping and chirping had subsided a bit, "I am… horribly embarrassed to… be found in this way… ohgod. Headache potion. Merlin."

Snape, who always kept vials of the most necessary potions (Wolfsbane, substitute blood, headache, dreamless sleep, and the cure-all for 'female troubles'.) hidden in the voluminous folds of his robes, handed a bit to both Draco and Pansy. They each swallowed it in one gulp, neither relishing the intensely bitter taste.

After several minutes had passed and the potion had taken full effect, Snape addressed them once more. "Now that you are suitably sober and able to make it up to your rooms without collapsing, I will escort you to your dorms. Please note that you will both be serving detention every Friday and Saturday for the next two months. Come. Parkinson, Malfoy." He took them both by their elbows and then, for no discernible reason, started so badly he nearly fell over.

"Professor!" Pansy cried, surprised.

"Sir?" said Draco.

Snape shook his head. "It's nothing. Go to your room, Miss Parkinson. Draco – a word, if you please." He turned abruptly and stalked toward his chambers. Pansy and Draco shared confused glances and she shrugged.

"I've no idea why he wants _you_," she whispered. "If it's the Dark Mark that made him jump so, he should have detained _me_. Unless he couldn't tell which of us it came from and thought you were most likely. Yes; that must be it." She tried to run her fingers through her hair but found it, if now clean, to be incredibly tangled. She made a face. "Well, since you're not in trouble I'm off to bed. See you in the morning."

She was about to turn and go, then thought better of it and strode over to kiss him quickly on the corner of his mouth. "Good night," she said softly, and retreated, at last, to her room.

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

It's been a very odd night. First there was the whole D.E. meeting thing… but I don't want to get into that or I'll be writing til noon.

Here's what happened in brief form: P. (Pansy shall hereafter be referred to as 'P.') gets Dark Mark. Lord V. talks to yours truly and tries to convince same to join Evil Forces of Darkness. Very persuasive. Yours truly assures V. that he'll think on it, and leaves. Someone brings drinks. P. and I get smashed and snog a lot. Portkey back to Hogwarts. Snog more and are about to do more when Prof. Snape comes in and sobers us up. Grabs our arms and starts, sends P. up to room and calls me to his office.

Now here's where it gets **really** odd.

I go to his office and he's doing that thing where his fingers are pointed in a steeple and he's looking all dark and surely – you know, the one he uses on 1st years.

Well, anyway, I say "Sir?"

He says, "Mr Malfoy. I understand that Miss Parkinson has now joined the ranks of the Death Eaters."

Now, obviously I know Prof. Snape is a D.E. himself, as he is a great family friend and is practically a relation. Also, we have lots in common (e.g. Potter-hate, potion-love, and problems with hair. His is oily, and mine tends to fly in all directions if not stuck down liberally with gel.) and he is my favourite teacher.

Hmm…I'm in a good mood tonight. Possibly because I now have a girlfriend and have already gotten 'frisky' (in the words of Scivi Pratt) with her.

Anyway, I say, "Yes, sir."

And he says, "And you are not?"

And I say, "No sir. I'm still thinking about it. It's a very big decision." This time, I'm blaming it on the hangover medicine. Blast it, I'm much more eloquent!

"Indeed," he says, and his forehead kind of ripples with Deep Thought. "You do not think yourself ready?"

I thought about this. I mean, I'm **ready**… I just don't really know if I want to. On the one hand… But I've gone over this already. Power and Chance of Death vs. Good-Little-Gryffindor-Type-Boy with Considerably More Chance of Surviving. So I said, "No. I'm just thinking about it."

More forehead ripples, and he leans forward. "When you are young, Mr Malfoy," he says, "you make… mistakes. Many mistakes. And you will often wish that you had not in future years but… the opportunity to remedy them is long past."

Hmm. He was obviously talking about himself, though what incident I've no idea. Something D.E.-related, certainly.

"And… one can learn from the experiences of others, which is why I'm telling you this…" he says, and he's got the same look on his face that my tutor did when he explained 'the Difference Between Girls and Boys'.

"When a man is young," he continues, "he is easily influenced by friends and such around him, though the friends may not… may not know any more than the man himself. They…" He stopped and pounded the desk with his fist.

"Oh, sod it!" he said, and glared at me. "Detention, Mr Malfoy!"

I did **not** say 'You've already given me two months, sir.' That would have been stupid. Instead, I said, "Friday, sir?"

Which is how I got out of two months (minus Friday) of detention.

Snape finished by saying, "Think on what I've said. Don't be rash." And then he escorted me up to the dorm.

Perhaps I'm misunderstanding this, but was Snape trying to persuade me **away** from the D.E.'s?

By the way, I think there was someone else out of bed, too, because I heard Snape yelling top-lung-power at someone after I'd gone to bed.

****

.

Hermione Granger was most certainly _not_ having a good day.

Harry had woken them all up the previous night at sometime around two in the morning, screaming about 'Blood' this and 'Voldemort' that. It had scared everyone half to death. (Ron has nearly passed out with all the cries of 'Voldmort! Voldemort!')

She had asked Harry how long these visions involving Voldemort and his latest plan had gone on, and he had said 'a week or two'. A week or two! And he hadn't told them! Well, he'd told Ron, who hadn't had the sense to do anything about it.

Boys!

Well, she'd resolved to find a cure right then and there and had marched off to Snape to request a dreamless sleep, vowing to approach McGonagall about some sort of book come the morning.

She'd tried his office, but it was locked. She concluded that even the night-lurking Snape was probably in his private quarters at three in the morning. She managed to find the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room (Harry and Ron had often described it to her with the promise that they would someday return with an armload of pranks and wreak royal havoc.) and, after several unsuccessful passwords, gained entrance. ("Mudblood! Snakes! Basilisk! Tom Riddle! Snape is the best professor! Malfoy is sexy! Oh, I can't believe I just tried that… Um, um, Pureblood! Muggleborns Stink! Potter Stinks!") The last was successful.

She wandered about the room a bit before she heard a door close somewhere just down the hall and tried that direction. And yes, it was correct – the plaque on the door read 'Professor S. Snape'. There were voices from within, and she could just barely make them out.

"… Parkinson… ranks… Death Eaters?"

Well, of course she _had_ to listen. It could be a plot against Harry and it was only her duty as a friend, after all.

When the conversation had concluded she managed to scurry behind a particularly lumpy tapestry and prayed that the shadows were very strong where she was standing.

They were, apparently – Malfoy didn't look twice at her – but her feet elected to be treacherous. Just as she was about to leave her hidey-hole, her toe caught on the tapestry's fringe and she tripped over it, ripping it out of the wall and bringing the whole contraption down around her ears.

Snape stormed out and proceeded to yell at her for the next hour, docking fifty points from Gryffindor and giving her detention with Pansy Parkinson for two months. Awful.

And it was Friday night tonight and she was going to have to scrub the Potions Classroom floor with Filch as supervisor and Pansy Parkinson for company.

The only bright side of this was that she now knew that Malfoy was up to something, and she would be left alone for four hours with one of the few people who knew exactly what it was.

Hermione smiled grimly.

Being Harry Potter's friend was a full-time job.

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

I've only just realised: I've finally beaten Potter at something non-schoolwork-related! I've got a girlfriend and he doesn't! Well, alright, he had Chang last year but she lasted for what, one date? That doesn't constitute a girlfriend. Besides, she just wanted to pour out her Diggory-Dilemma. Honestly.

I've got a girlfriend! Hmm… I've actually been **smiling** today, which is rather amusing because people keep staring at me…

I've got a girlfriend!

****

.

"… and that's why you should watch out for Malfoy this year, Harry." Hermione concluded.

Harry paused and fiddled with his glasses a bit. "So you're saying Malfoy's definitely a Death Eater, and you're not sure about Parkinson?"

Hermione nodded. "From what I overheard – not much, I'll grant you – it seemed that Malfoy was and he was considering getting Parkinson into it, but wasn't sure if she was ready or wanted to or something. I was sort of thinking that, if Parkinson's on the brink, we could, you know, _tip_ her over to our side."

Ron made a face. "Ugh. I'd rather be eaten by the squid than have to consort with _her_."

Harry was reminded of a similar threat Parkinson had made to him not two weeks ago, and his mouth quirked slightly. "Hah, yes. Pansy's a nasty piece of work, Hermione. I wouldn't mess around with her for anything. If she's not a Death Eater yet she's on the waiting list, I can guarantee you."

Hermione growled in exasperation, thumping her fist against the table so hard that the pieces on Ron's chessboard shook. "We're the good guys – we're not supposed to stand about yelling 'Everyone who thinks exactly like we do and isn't a Slytherin, come to our side!' Discrimination is Voldemort's – Ron, honestly – job."

Harry sighed. "Hermione, I'm as against prejudice and all as you are, but this isn't prejudice – it's precaution. I'll give you the fact that there are good Slytherins, but I know and you know that Pansy isn't among them. I've heard her using the M-word more times than I can count. I know you fancy yourself as Slytherin House's redeemer, but you need to give it up."

She stood abruptly, her eyes cold. "Fine then! You can't even accept that there might be shades of grey! Just because she doesn't like us you think she's evil! Well, I won't put up with it! When you get some sense, come talk to me!" And she stormed out.

Ron shook his head. "First House Elves, now Slytherins… What's she going to call this one? Protection Institute for Saved Slytherins?"

Harry spelled it out and made a face. "Ew. But yes, she's being stupid. It's Malfoy and Parkinson. Between them, they're practically Death Eater poster-children."

"Poster-whatsis?"

"Never mind. Not important."

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

Having a girlfriend is an interesting experience. It certainly has its benefits. For instance, Pansy comes into the room and all I have to do is give her this **look** – you know, the really sultry one I practised for hours – and she melts like ice mice in July. And then I do the 'come-hither' gesture and we're snogging like mad. I love it.

It also means, though, that if she can't get a seat close to me she'll sit in my lap. And while she's by no means fat, she's not exactly sticks and bones and she's bloody **heavy**. 

And I think it also looks ridiculous because she's so **tall**. Well, I'm taller when I stand, but her legs make up maybe three-fourths of her height, and it looks so silly when she's draped over my lap and her legs are absolutely **everywhere**. I actually look **dwarfed**.

Despite this, though, I'm quite enjoying the romance. And it's not like talking to one of those gorgeously stupid girls, either, because Pansy's been my best friend for ages and we always have something to talk about.

On a different note, I can't help but think on Lord V. and my Father. It used to be 'yes' and last summer it changed to 'no' and now it's 'maybe'. Merlin. I mean, I think mudbloods should grovel and kiss my boots, yes, of course, but…Well, I may have kicked a puppy or two in my life, but I'm in no hurry to murder & torture for a bloody madman!

On the other hand, I had no idea how his ranks have grown! It used to be where I thought they had no chance of winning, but now I'm not so sure. Greg, Scivi, Vince, and, of course, Pansy all joined the Young Order last night. Millicent, apparently, was the one who got Pansy into it, and all the other of the girls in her dorm have already joined. That leaves Blaise and I as the odd ones out and Blaise has always sort of… well, you know. He's not exactly the prime example of what makes up a Slytherin. A bit Ravenclaw, that one.

And think of it! I wouldn't even have to be in the Young Order – straight to the top! That's a phenomenal opportunity… if I were to take it. 

And then there's Snape's speech from the other night… What the hell do you make of **that**? He's trying to convince me not to? As a D.E. himself? What's he thinking? And why? Does he think I'm not capable? I'm sure he can't; he's always expressed the greatest faith in me and he didn't say a thing about any of the other students, and I'm sure he knows about them. So what's he doing?

Should I or shouldn't I? I haven't any idea and for every pro there's a con…

****

.

"Miss Parkinson. Miss Granger. Mr Malfoy. I'm afraid to say that you'll be enduring each other's company for the next two months on the weekends. I-"

"Except for me, of course, Professor," said Malfoy. Pansy and Snape looked at him curiously.

"And why not you, Malfoy?"

"Because I've only been assigned detention for tonight. It's in the official records, if you'd like to check. They can't be changed," he added rather gleefully. Snape summoned the records book and thumbed quickly through it until he reached Malfoy's names. He scowled ferociously for a moment, then his brows quirked slightly and he set the book down.

"It appears that you are correct, Mr Malfoy. I must have been misinformed." Pansy and Hermione both attempted to speak at once, the latter sensing foul play and the former outraged. Snape waved them so silence. "Regardless, you will be cleaning the whole of the classroom tonight. Among the three of you, I expect you to manage it before midnight. The buckets and rags are over there. Oh, and…" he paused and casually drew his wand from his sleeve. "_Accio! Accio! Accio!_" Three wands flew toward him and he caught them deftly. "No magic," he concluded, treating them with his very best smirk.

Three pairs of eyes bore into his back as he turned and strode out of the classroom and three minds thought of the nastiest curses they could conjure as the door shut and the lock clicked in.

Pansy rounded on Malfoy. "I can't believe you! You manage to weasel your way out of it – and I don't even want to know **how** – and you don't do the same for me! Some boyfriend you are," she huffed.

"Pansy, sweetling," he consoled, and she winced at the endearment, sarcastic as it was. "If the situation allowed it I would have. He was distracted and tried to give me another detention: I merely made sure that it overlapped and cancelled the first. I didn't think I'd be able to work you into it."

She sighed. "Well, I'll forgive you, as long as you never call me 'sweetling' again."

"IF THAT DUNGEON ISN'T SPOTLESS WHEN I RETURN THE LOT OF YOU WILL BE IN THERE... ALL-NIGHT-LONG!" Snape's voice, amplified as if by a Howler, boomed throughout the room. Hermione clasped her hands to her ears, wincing.

Pansy shook her head. "Well, we'd best get to it, then. Draco, you take the corner by the window. I'll take that one-" and she pointed to the section adjacent to his "-and Granger, you can take the one over there. Away from the two of us. We'll all get the last when we finish the rest. All right, everyone grab a rag! Don't just stand around gawking at me, Granger, you look like a fish. Get to it!" She said imperiously. Draco raised an eyebrow at her and she smacked him playfully with the washrag.

Hermione made a face. Obviously, the two were Involved. Perhaps Harry and Ron were right (much as she was loathe to admit it), and there really was no hope for the Slytherin girl. Anyone who was dating Malfoy had to be part of the Dark Arts somehow – it was only common sense. Then she wondered if Harry and Ron were contagious and she was absorbing anti-Slytherinism.

She worked at her corner diligently, making as little noise as possible so that she might eavesdrop on the other two. Unfortunately, neither seemed to be saying anything interesting. They were flirting most revoltingly, though.

"Aack!" Pansy screamed as she knocked her bucket of soapy water all over herself. She had been holding it aloft at the time, for reasons no one could guess, and her hair was soaked. "Oh, V-alive! I'm filthy!"

Hermione shot her a glance. 'V-alive' was a slightly politer version of 'Voldemort Alive' and was the wizardring equivalent of saying 'eff'.

"Oh, Pansy, you dirty girl, you," Malfoy jibed, grinning. "I'm sure your curls will never recover from such trauma. Horrors, horrors."

Malfoy's grin was unnerving.

"They won't, either," Pansy lamented, "I shall have to bleach them, like you do your hair." Malfoy made a strange, gagging noise and ran his fingers over his stiffly gelled hair. (It was getting almost too long for gel, Hermione noted absently. The tail end was down past his collar.)

"I most certainly do _not_ bleach my hair!" He said defensively, scowling at his girlfriend, and was about to continue when Pansy noticed her watching them.

"What do _you_ think you're looking at, mudblood?" she snarled. "You think you're so clever, trying to eavesdrop on us. You Gryffindors – as subtle as bleeding elephants! Get back to work, Granger, and if I so much as see a glance in our direction from you I'll curse you til Wednesday when I recover my wand. And don't think your book-smarts will save you; you know as well as I that I outclass you in hexes. Besides," she added smugly, "it'll be two against one."

Hermione turned back to her work, cheeks burning with rage and humiliation. She doubted that Pansy had more hex expertise than she, but Malfoy might and it _was_ two against one. She wasn't as rash or foolhardy as Ron and Harry.

She made sure to keep her eyes trained firmly on the floor as she listened, this time. They were talking very quietly now, the two of them, having moved in their scrubbing so that they were working side-by-side, and she couldn't hear a word. Thankfully, though, she knew the Weasley twins.

She reached into her pocket and plucked out an Audibility Enhancer, which she chewed quickly. She winced as the slop of her rag in the water cracked through her ears, and concentrated on Malfoy and Parkinson.

"… I saw the werewolf – what was his name – that taught us third year yesterday," Pansy was confiding. "Snape was brewing him some sort of potion. Wolfsbane, I'd guess, but I'm not sure. D'you suppose he's teaching next year? With all the mess surrounding our Lord, I don't think anyone will put up much of a fuss against Dumbledore. He's pretty much _worshipped_, now, ever since last year."

Hermione started. She had called him 'Our Lord' – not You-Know-Who or any of the other over-hyphenated pseudonyms, but 'Our Lord'. Only his followers called him that. It seemed that Pansy was indeed a hopeless case… Her rag hit the floor with a particularly loud slap.

She wondered if Pansy were just gossiping, or if there was actually a chance that Lupin would be back next year. Not that Professor West was a bad teacher – she was fair enough – but no one compared to Lupin. And what if he were here still? Would she get a chance to talk to him? Or maybe he had already talked to Harry?

Her thoughts were interrupted when Malfoy and Pansy, having finished three-quarters of the room and resentful because she wasn't even done with her small bit, sneaked up behind her and promptly emptied their buckets over her head. She squealed in outrage and kicked out at them, hitting Malfoy in the calf and making him stagger and slip on the wet stone.

He cried out in shock and Pansy rounded on Hermione. The slighter girl suddenly felt nervous. Who knew what Parkinson was capable of?

Pansy grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her to her feet. Hermione whimpered without being able to help it and tried to lash out at Pansy, but the other girl was too quick and experienced at such things. She pinned Hermione's arms behind her back quickly.

"Don't _touch_ us, mudblood," Parkinson said, and her words were fairly saturated with hatred and contempt.

"I – can't – help – it – if – you're – holding – me!" Hermione managed to grind out. Pansy let her go abruptly, shoving her a bit, and she toppled forward, smacking her knees and hands against the ground and tearing her palms painfully.

Malfoy was standing again, and looking down on her. His face was perfectly blank. "Come on, Pansy," he said, and led her to the other end of the room. Hermione turned her back on them and stared at the wall. She was definitely _not_ crying.

They stayed that way for the remainder of the detention.

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

Another odd day. Detention with Granger. Did not go well. Pansy is very protective. I never realised. Almost feel sorry for Granger. She deserved it, though, if she **was** eavesdropping.

Anyway, it's very late as I finally got back from detention and then spent a half-hour finishing homework. Don't have the energy to write much tonight.

On a side-note, though, I think Granger heard even more than Pansy realised.

****

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AN: Lovely! Second finished! Extra-special Kudos to **Cardigan Pantalones **for her wonderful beta-ability and for Latin help. I also wish to thank Kittie for reading it over and telling me what she thought. (And she thought good things! This is great! Squee!)

Oh, and on the Latin – 'Ecce Morsmordre' was done by Cardigan as I consider it an important spell and therefore should have proper translation. 'Sobrietus,' obviously, was not. That's just me making an English word sound vaguely Latin. 

And yes, for all you wondering – this really is going to be H/D slash, I promise. ^.^ You just have to wait a while. Besides, Pansy's so fun to write! 

Oh, and thanks to the music of Jason Mraz. I've been playing his CD continuously and I think it must be inspiring. Squee! 

****

Space In Which I Thank My Glorious, Heavenly, Angelic Reviewers:

Amber: *grins* Thank you! I love writing the diary entries – they're my favourite part! Glad you're enjoying it.

****

Nez: I'm so happy; pretty much everyone's been telling me I've caught the characterisation! Favourites? Really!? *is bouncy beyond belief* Hurrah!

****

Different Perception: Thank you! ^.^ You people make me so happy.

****

randomness of speech: *laughs* go ahead and say it all you like! I'm terribly flattered. I've been told I have a 'very unique style of writing'… Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Anyway, thank you so much! I giggled with joyfulness for quite a while after reading your review!


	3. Espionage

****

A/N Today, September 4th, is my birthday! Happy me!

The Malfoy Code

Espionage

.

Harry was sulking. Again.

Ron supposed that it was about Sirius, but didn't really know. Harry didn't talk about 'feelings' and, frankly, Ron didn't really want to ask. He was concerned for Harry and would have done anything to help him, but he was half-paralysed by the fear that his best friend would break down crying. Ron knew what to do with a crying girl or child (be chivalrous, pat it on the back, hand it a tissue... that sort of thing) but had absolutely no clue when it came to male best-friends.

He and Hermione were despairing what to do with Harry, though. At times he would be normal and cheerful and laughing and then, seemingly for no reason at all, his face would darken and shut down. He'd grow silent and broody and answer in monosyllables. It was as if something inside him woke up and started screaming "No! Sirius is dead! How dare you have fun!"

Ron gritted his teeth and stuffed a wad of fresh tissues in his pocket before sitting down next to Harry. They were in the Library, which meant that the sobbing couldn't be too loud, and in a secluded corner, which meant that no one but he would witness Harry's breakdown. (And Ron was completely convinced that there would be a breakdown.)

"Er… Harry? Mate?"

Harry looked up from where he had been hastily scribbling down notes for tomorrow's Potions quiz. "Yes?"

"Is there, er…" Ron forced the words out. He had pulled one of the tissues from his pocket and was twisting it behind his back. "Er. Anythingyouwanttotalkabout?"

Harry looked at him strangely for a moment before his expression cleared into one of understanding. "Did Hermione put you up to this?" Without even waiting for an answer, he continued. "Because I'm not emotionally scarred or depressed or suicidal or manic depressive or whichever theory she's come up with. Really."

Ron gripped the tissue harder. "Are you sure? Because, you know, Sirius-" and something flashed off in Harry's face right then, leaving it blank and expressionless. "See! I didn't even need Hermione to tell me I had to talk to you. You do that every time you even think of him! I know something's wrong." He slid into the chair across from Harry's.

Harry looked at his book and continued with note-taking, determined not to look Ron in the eye. Ron closed the book, catching the tail end of the quill between the pages as he did so. Harry dropped it.

"Talk to me," said Ron, and discreetly tucked the worried, shredded tissue into his empty pocket.

Harry was silent for a moment, then said, "I think we should check on Snape."

Ron started. "_Why_? What's wrong with Snape? Did you have a vision?"

His best friend sent him an absolutely scathing look. "Not everything revolves around my _visions_," he said icily.

Oops, Ron thought, return of mad-dangerous Harry. He attempted to back-pedal. "Sorry, it's just that I know you've been having some recently about disturbing things and I thought that it might be something to do with those…"

"No."

"Oh. Ah. Sorry. Um. Why do you want to talk to Snape?"

"Not _talk to_ Snape," said Harry, leaning a bit closer, his mood forgotten for the moment in lieu of a promising adventure, "_check_ on him. Hermione mentioned that Lupin's been coming around for his potion, didn't she? Well, if Lupin's around there are bound to be conversing about Order matters. Or at least speaking of things we wouldn't otherwise hear." His eyes narrowed. "Because they think we're too _fucking_ young."

Ron started. He'd never heard Harry curse like that before. Evidently, Harry hadn't either, because the word came out awkwardly and he looked a bit ashamed afterwards. He collected himself quickly, though.

"It could be a rumour," Ron said. "Not that I'm against checking it out anyway, mind you, but just as a thought. I'd trust it more if it came from Ginny or Dean or anyone like that, but she heard it off of Pansy Parkinson."

Harry shrugged. "When Parkinson didn't know she was listening in. That's the best time to catch a Slytherin telling the truth."

Ron gave him an odd look. "Weren't you just defending Malfoy to me a week or so ago?"

"No. Yes. I mean, I was, but I was wrong."

The odd look continued. "But nothing's happened between Malfoy and you since then. Has it?"

Harry shook his head. "No, nothing's happened. It just… With everything Hermione's said it seems to be pretty clear that he's a Death Eater." Ron nodded, not surprised. Absently, he fetched another tissue from his pocket. It didn't appear as if Harry would need them, at least.

"And," Harry continued, "I think it's… I think it's such a _waste_!" The last word was so emphatic that the thin paper tore in Ron's hands. "He's a colossal git, but he's good with curses and stuff."

"Harry," said Ron, his voice laden with patience but absent of understanding, "it's _Malfoy_."

Harry scowled. "I know that. I'd just thought that since he was somewhat decent through that business with the detention and now that his father's dead… well, that he'd be different. I'm stupid, aren't I?"

Ron laughed. "Nah, just idealistic," he said, standing. "So when do you want to spy on Snape?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. I've got to study for his test tonight, so maybe tomorrow? It'll be Friday, too, so no worries about staying out late. And the Full Moon's in three days, so Lupin's bound to come by."

Ron nodded, pleased. "Well, then. I'm heading to the Common Room. You coming?"

"No, I'll finish this. Be up in a bit," said Harry.

Ron nodded again and left. He didn't realise that Harry had avoided mention of Sirius altogether until Hermione questioned him on their conversation. And then he worried. When had Harry become so subtle? You used to be able to tell when he was doing something underhanded a mile off. And now he'd managed to completely manipulate a discussion with his best friend.

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

Thinking about the 'Dark Lord Decision' (hereafter to be known as DLD because I am lazy and cannot bother with writing out long phrases tonight) again. Also, think Potter is up to something. Not that he isn't always, but there's something special going on. I caught him and Weasley in the Library discussing something in lowered voices. As they are two thirds of the Trio; this means that they are up to something.

Bloody Gryffindors. I will endeavour to uncover their plot and cost them many House Points in the process, as I do every year. (Hm. They always win the cup, though. Perhaps I should stop this? I may be doing more harm than good…)

I am in an odd mood tonight. I have somewhat sunken from my Just Dating euphoria and am now settling into the ways of an Old Dating Couple (yes, I know, I'm stealing from the 'married' clichés, but you'll just have to put up with it). P & I had an argument today over whether West was a good teacher or not. I said she was an okay teacher but not nearly so good as Umbridge at being a disciplinarian (did I spell that right?). P says that she is superb in all ways as she upholds Women's Rights. I told her that just because someone likes Women's Rights does not mean that she is God, and she said that I am a prejudiced, sexist, male chauvinist pig. 

Hmm. I wonder why I had never heard anyone called a female chauvinist cow? They certainly seem to put men down more than we put them down. Well, that term hadn't been used before tonight, at least. I had to say something back to her.

As you can see, I am feeling somewhat whimsical. This is mostly because Pansy always feels wretched after silly fights like these, comes in for kisses & such later, and we have great fun. Did you know she can toss grapes in the air and catch them in her mouth? It is very fun to watch.

Urgh. Have just looked over previous entries. I can't believe that there are bleeding **tear stains** on one of them. I am so pathetic sometimes. Father was stupid. I will not cry over someone who got himself killed stupidly.

Somewhat later…

_Damn it. Pansy has not forgiven me. Great stubborn cow. Furthermore, Millicent has told me that Pansy is going to cease doing her hair, makeup, and other such female things! She says that it's Pansy's way of getting back at me by making herself unattractive. I suggested that Millicent might pass it along that being aloof and beautiful would be a more sadistic method of revenge, but Millicent says that Pansy is being very feminist at the moment and will not hear it. _

I shall show her though. If she is covered in grime with furry legs and a moustache (not that Pansy has a moustache; this is hypothetical) I shall kiss her anyway. Not only will she lose the argument, but I will have a good defence in future males vs. female battles. 

On a side note, my hair is driving me mad. I am growing it out, as is the custom for Malfoy males, but it's just about too much for gel now and it looks ridiculous in a two inch long ponytail!

****

.

"Ow."

"Shut up."

"Elbow. In my eye. And my back will never be straight again."

"Shut up. If you'd rather, I'll bring Hermione next time. She's short and quiet." Ron shut up.

It is extraordinarily difficult to fit two sixteen-year-old boys under one cloak. You might have fit two Harrys into there easily enough, or two Hermiones, but Ron ruined the whole thing. He was a head and a half taller than Harry, and very broad across the shoulders. He had to hunch terribly for the cloak to cover their all four shoes.

They were right up against the doorway of the Potions classroom now, and inching slowly inside. Every few seconds they had to pause and snatch at the robe to prevent it from slipping and exposing them.

Thankfully, there was no one there to see them exposed.

Ron tugged at Harry's elbow. "He's not here," he whispered.

Though Ron couldn't see it, Harry rolled his eyes. "Well, of _course_ not. It's eleven at night. Not even Snape is obsessive enough to grade papers so late. The whole point was that he _wouldn't_ be here. That way we can spy."

"Oh," said Ron. Then, "Can we take the cloak off now? I mean, if no one's here…" Harry sighed, gave in, and pulled his cloak off the two of them. Ron straightened and bent backwards, arching his back until it popped. "Uooooh! Thanks! That was awful."

Harry ignored him and proceeded towards Snape's massive desk, where he began to carefully sort through various papers and files. "Don't displace anything. Snape will notice." He disregarded the stuff on the desk as it consisted solely of student assignments. He knelt to inspect the drawers.

He ignored the files inside; a simple glance told him that they were mundane school-goings-on documents. Instead, almost by instinct, he lay his hand flat against the bottom of the drawer directly above that which he was inspecting and felt about. His fingers encountered a suspicious lump, and his eyes brightened as he slid the lump out of its securing bonds.

It was a slender, leather-bound book with 'S.S.' carelessly etched into it with the tip of a quill. Harry set it on the desk and cautiously turned to the first page. 'S. Snape's Account: 1978- ', it read.

"_Brilliant_," Ron breathed softly and, with a perfunctory glance to check that no one was coming, leaned forward to read over Harry's shoulder.

Harry could tell that it was a magical journal, as Snape seemed to write in it almost every day from 1978 and there couldn't possibly be room for so many entries in such a small book. He caught flashes of 'Black,' 'Potter,' 'Evans,' and 'Lupin' scattered through the first few entries, but refused to allow himself to look. They were not here so he could daydream about his parents. Besides, any account by Snape was sure to be derogatory. Harry flipped to the last page. Snape had his own obscure shorthand which seemed to come and go as he thought of it.

Thursday, October 17, 1996

Meeting for Sr. Death Eaters tnite. Attacked a group of 10 muggle teens. 3 killed, rest captured. Why? Drk Lrd says 'New ally'. Who? Singular, plural, or entire group/race/etc.? Drk Lrd doesn't trust me. Not surprising.

Speak to Dmbldre.

And that was all. It seemed as though the Voldemort truly _didn't_ trust Snape, as the bit about the 'new ally' was the most cohesive information that he uncovered. He had just flipped back to the early years to indulge himself when Ron tugged at his arm.

"Someone's coming! I can hear their shoes!"

Harry shoved the book back into the desk, praying that it fit into its slots and didn't fall into the drawer beneath, and pulled Ron under the desk with him. He then draped the cloak around both of them. The desk was very small, and they were crammed so tightly together that Harry couldn't breathe very deeply.

"Professor? Are you here?" The voice, languid and apathetic, was terrifyingly familiar, and Harry's nails dug into Ron's calf. _Malfoy_. Of all people… "Professor Snape?"

No answer came, and Malfoy sighed audibly. Harry could hear the soft creak of old wood as Malfoy seated himself in a desk, then the rustling of someone searching through papers in his book bag. 

Next to him, Ron shifted until his mouth was closer to Harry's ear and he could whisper safely. Harry tried to control his breathing. He was sure it was loud enough for Malfoy to hear.

"He's not paying attention," Ron hissed. "We can get out of this bloody desk as long as we're careful with the cloak."

Harry, relieved, nodded and began the long process of crawling out while keeping the cloak firmly wrapped around both of them.

They made it, and had just reached the door when Malfoy's head jerked up from whatever book or assignment he was engrossed it. "Who's there?" he demanded, drawing his wand and assuming a duelling stance.

Ron's hand had almost reached the heavy door handle when Harry pulled him away. There was no way they'd manage to slip through the door without Malfoy cursing them. "Wait," he said, so quietly that he barely heard it himself. Ron froze.

"Who's there," Malfoy repeated, and his eyes were snapping from possible-hiding-location to possible-hiding-location with what Harry could only describe as 'maniacal fervour'. He distantly thought Hermione would be proud of his vocabulary.

The door creaked open and Ron and Harry jumped aside, nearly falling to the floor as they tripped over each other. Miraculously, the cloak stayed on.

Malfoy's wand lowered. "Oh, Professor – it's just you. I thought…"

Snape's voice was icy. "Mr Malfoy. What _are_ you doing in my classroom after hours?"

"I-" Malfoy began, but got no further.

"You are _not_ to come into any room of mine without my consent! Unless you want to join your… _girlfriend_" Snape spoke the word with utter contempt "and Miss Granger in detention next week, I suggest you leave _this instant_. I am a busy man."

Malfoy looked on the verge of arguing, but elected not to and instead clenched his jaw briefly in frustration. "Yes. Professor. Of course," he bit out, and stormed from the dungeon. Not missing the chance to escape, Harry and Ron followed him. 

Just outside the door Malfoy paused and winced as if he'd just remembered something crucial. He turned and ran back into the classroom, emerging five or six seconds later with a book in hand and Snape barking reprimands after him.

Ron nudged Harry in the ribs and pointed toward the book, which Harry had already noticed. It was thick and black and tied with a single scarlet ribbon. It bore no title, but some sort of crest that included interlocking M's had been engraved on the front cover.

"It's a _diary_," Ron hissed gleefully. "Malfoy keeps a bloody _diary_!" Harry pointedly trod on his foot in an effort to keep his overzealous friend silent. Ron could as easily marry a cat as be stealthy.

They followed Malfoy around corridors and very nearly lost him at one point when Peeves dashed through the halls, singing the Slytherins' version of 'Weasley Is Our King' and almost succeeding in getting Ron to dash out from underneath the cloak. Harry wondered fleetingly if ghosts could see invisible things but then dismissed it. If Peeves could see them he would have alerted Malfoy. 

At last they came to a familiar section of wall. Malfoy ran his hand through (or rather, _over_, considering its gelled state) his hair, trying to recall something.

"Right," he said, clearly thinking aloud. "_Last_ week's was 'Finnigan Must Die'. This time around it's 'Professor West Forever'" the wall slid back. "Nice password, Parkinson," Malfoy commented absently, and headed in.

Harry grabbed Ron's arm and pulled him through the entryway without waiting for the other boy's sentiments. He wasn't about to miss a chance to spy on Slytherins.

Crabbe looked up from an enormous tome he was perusing. "Oh, hello Malfoy. What did Snape say?"

Malfoy shrugged. "He was in a bad mood, I guess. Either that or he's got me confused with Potter. I'll try again tomorrow morning before class."

"That's nice. Pansy's looking for you."

Another nonchalant shrug. "If she wants to talk to me she can come find me. I'm in no mood to put up with an inane argument. I am, however, in the mood to read. Any recommendations?"

Crabbe pointed to a green-and-blue book resting on one of the coffee tables. "There - _Follow the Lethifold_ – if you're looking for a good mystery. Or _Life on the Quidditch Pitch_ if you want a great, moving modern-day fiction. That's over there, with the clouds and brooms on it." He gestured to another sitting atop a bookshelf.

"I'll try the Quidditch one," Malfoy said, and did so. 

He had hardly sat down when Pansy slid through the doorway. She caught sight of Draco, displayed her best smirk, and sat down next to him on the couch, leaning into his shoulder. She buried her face in his neck.

"Ew," commented Ron from just behind Harry's ear. "Let's go away now." 

Malfoy made a pleased, distracted noise, though he kept his eyes firmly on the book. Harry craned his neck and was able to see that Malfoy was intensely studying the title page. He decided that Ron's suggestion was probably wise, and the two exited the tower.

Ron tugged off the cloak before Harry could tell him otherwise and slung it over an arm. He made a face. "Slytherins! The only thing we found out _there_ was that Malfoy has an exhibitionist streak. Did you _see_ them?"

Yes, Harry had. He didn't think it was quite as bad as Ron was making out – they had only been kissing, after all. He shrugged.

"Well, anyway, let's head back to the tower before Hermione gets back from her detention."

Harry was about to reply, then paused and shook his head. "No, she must have already come back… unless Pansy got off early. They had detention together, remember?"

Ron made a dull groaning noise. "Ugh. We'd better get back straight away, then."

Harry thought for a minute and shook his head. "I'll wait around here for a bit, if you give me the cloak. I want to see if there's anything else I can find out. Tell Hermione I'm in the library or you gave me the password to Prefect's Bath or something."

Ron handed him the cloak hesitantly. "Well… I don't want to leave you alone with Slytherins, but I suppose it's alright if you've got the cloak. Just don't get squashed by Goyle, all right?" Harry nodded. "Right. I'm off to the tower." And he left.

Harry wrapped the cloak around him, sat down, and waited.

Around fifteen minutes later there was some very loud yelling, a muffled crash, and loud, stomping footsteps. The wall rocketed to the side and Malfoy raged through, spitting and cursing at someone unseen from inside.

"Bloody Coulden! I wasn't doing anything _wrong_!"

A girl marched after him. She was deathly thin and pale and wearing a 'Head Girl' badge. She prodded him in the chest with one finger and he backed away, looking slightly scandalised. Malfoys weren't _prodded_.

"You were three seconds away from having her robe off! That's _definitely_ wrong! I will not have such behaviour in _my_ dungeon!" _Your dungeon? _Malfoy's face read. "Clear off until you get your ruddy hormones under control!"

"I never went near the tie on her robes. You're just upset because it wasn't _you_ on that couch," Malfoy snarled. The girl – Coulden – sucked air through her teeth. "And I'll tell Snape about this – this blatant discrimination!"

"Oh, please," she said, "spare me the hypocrisy. You're a prefect, right? Go take a long, cold bath. I'm sure you'll feel much better and you won't have to sully a couch to do it. Good night." She turned on her heel and re-entered the common room. The wall swished to a close behind her and refused to open again.

After cursing at the wall and pounding on it until his hands were red, Malfoy leaned against the offending architecture and slid down until he was in a sitting position. "Sodding Coulden with her sodding rules and sodding _Head Girl badge_." The last was said with such intense loathing that Harry very nearly shivered.

Malfoy ran his fingers over his hair, combing them through the gel disgustedly. He was scowling. The sleeves of his robes slipped down to his elbows, but he paid them no mind.

"Bloody hair," he cursed, and twirled his wand a bit. It fell lank around his face, looking a bit greasy. Probably, Harry thought, a by-product of the constant gelling spells. He was distracted from the issue of Malfoy's hair, though, in staring at Malfoy's exposed forearm.

It was bare.

Of course, this could mean that the Dark Mark was concealed. There was no proof in either direction. But…

Harry rose as silently as he could and left the hallway, eager to get back to Hermione. Yes, she would shout and go on about rule-breaking, but she would also do an excellent job of analysing the situation and coming up with an answer as to whether or not Malfoy really was a Death Eater.

****

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__

Dear Journal,

Pansy made up with me in the most delightful way tonight. She apologised and said that our argument was 'ridiculous' – which it was – and that she had been 'in an awful mood over the prospective detention with Granger and willing to take out her anger on the most available person'. Girls think too much.

Anyway, we were kissing. Nothing **serious**, of course, because that would insult Pansy's honour, but Coulden seemed to think it was. She kicked me straight out of the dungeon, claiming all sorts of things. Personally, I think she just needs a boyfriend herself. Honestly.

I suppose it ended well enough, because I'd only been sitting outside for a few minutes when Snape happened along and asked why I was lurking about. I explained and he let me in again, lecturing Coulden terribly. I made sure to tell him about her '**my** dungeon' comment. He was furious, and she just had to stand there and listen to it because she was clearly in the wrong.

Her punishment has restored my good mood. Unfortunately, Coulden had already sent Pansy to bed so I haven't seen her again tonight.

That **Life on the Quidditch Pitch** is an interesting book. It's told in the first person, present tense, which is a bit odd. You know – 'I am watching as the players take off on their brooms. They swoop through the air and I think how they look as if they were dancing in the air.' Very descriptive. 

Everyone thinks Vince and Greg are stupid just because they're huge. Well, Greg's a bit thick sometimes but Vince is pretty intelligent. He reads about as often as I **should** and we enjoy the same types of books, which is nice. Always good to ask for a recommendation.

I rather think Vince enjoys cracking his knuckles at people and then going off on the complexities of constructing a dual-initiating spell. He also thinks it's incredibly funny that my 'goons' (as he and Greg have been called) can be smarter than me in certain areas. Luckily, they're both horrid at writing and homework so I can show them up there and achieve academic superiority. Hah.

Well, the day's been pretty bad – Snape **and** Coulden yelling at me – but it had its redeeming moments. (Snape yelling at Coulden and the brief snog with Pansy) So, overall, I go to bed in a good mood.

****

.

'…_and he didn't have you-know-what on his arm. Can it be disguised? What do you think about it? Write Back. –Harry_' 

He finished the note, five rolls of parchment long, and folded them together into an enormously thick note. He scrawled _Pass to Hermione_ on the protruding blank side and handed it under the desk to Lavender Brown.

He was in Transfiguration, but McGonagall was only going on about the theory of something-or-other. His textbook seemed to cover most of this type of thing, so he wasn't too worried about that.

A moment later, Lavender palmed a slender scrap of paper onto his desk. He unfolded it discreetly behind his inkpot.

__

Harry! Pay attention! I will not let you borrow my notes! And why couldn't you tell me all this over breakfast? I'm sure it took ages to write out! I'll read it and talk to you about it later. By the way, not all of this is in the book, so don't think you can get off so easily! Do you want to be an Auror or not?

-Hermione

He sighed and tucked it into the pocket of his robe. He should have known that she wouldn't descend to _passing notes in class_. Hermione had often held long lectures on the benefits of paying attention and the disadvantages of the disrespect that the rest of the class paid to the teachers.

A few minutes later, though, he was surprised by Lavender flicking a considerably larger scrap onto his desk.

__

I've read it. I'm sorry I was so brisk before – this really is important! (Though I can't see why you didn't tell me instead of writing it all.) Perhaps Parkinson is a Death Eater and Malfoy on the line? I am not under the impression that the Dark Mark can be hidden. Besides, you said that Malfoy wasn't nervous about his sleeves slipping down. I'm sure, if I had a brand that could get me into prison with a blink, I wouldn't be so casual about letting my clothing slip – even **if** there were a spell protecting it.

Besides, I have had several opportunities to know Parkinson better, and I no longer believe that she can be 'redeemed'. She is more prejudiced than even Malfoy! 

But I will not bore you with meaningless details. The point of my note is this: Malfoy has been going through a rough time recently, what with his father executed, and his loyalties may be in question. I don't think you're the best person to talk to him, but perhaps we could speak to Snape or Dumbledore? (Malfoy would be more likely to listen to Snape, but Dumbledore more likely to listen to **us**.)

Don't write back; we'll talk after classes.

-Hermione

PS. I've put a sealing charm on this, so you're the only one who can open it. We learned it the other week, remember? This way we don't have to be careful about mentioning names and incidences.

-H

Harry refolded the note and tucked it securely into his bag. He looked up and caught her discreetly looking at him from behind her textbook. He gave a swift nod and she flashed a brief, humourless smile before turning her full attention back to McGonagall, who sounded as if she were just about to finish the lesson.

Harry wondered whether either Snape or Dumbledore would be successful in convincing Draco Malfoy to relinquish his ties with Voldemort. He doubted that Snape would suffer the humiliation of taking advice from students, but, like Hermione, doubted that Dumbledore had enough influence on Malfoy to influence him at all.

He stared down at his notes, which he couldn't remember taking, and puzzled. Dumbledore would be the more logical choice, because he could make Snape talk to Malfoy should he wish so. Yes, definitely Dumbledore.

He caught Hermione's eye again and tipped his glasses down to the end of his nose, then mimed stroking a long beard. Her mouth quirked and she suppressed a grin, nodding her understanding. Her expression then turned to one of dismay, and he swivelled in his seat to come face-to-face with McGonagall, who was looking decidedly miffed.

"You will pay attention in my class, _Mr. Potter_. Ten points from Gryffindor, and if I catch your eyes straying again, you will serve detention! Can you tell me the incantation used in turning a bird into a mobile, flying broom?" Harry shook his head, abashed, and Hermione's hand flew predictably into the air.

McGonagall had, evidently, not really been expecting an answer, and gave him a last scornful look before turning to Hermione. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

Class droned on for another half hour, and Harry managed to keep his mind on Transfiguration for the duration.

****

.

Pansy and Draco were walking outside along the shores of lake. Pansy kept shooting rather longing glances to Draco as they strolled between the squid and a collection of rowdy Hufflepuffs, who were playing and shouting in the distance. 

Their fingers were loosely entwined and every now and then would brush either his thigh or hers. It was comfortable and… safe. The sun was sinking below the trees of the Forest, and both were forced to look down to avoid the glare. Pansy watched Draco's feet, while he gazed at their hands.

At length, she said, "Have you thought about Our Lord?"

He was silent for a bit, then said. "Yes, quite a lot." 

He continued no further, and she was forced to broach the subject again. "Well? Have you come to a decision?"

He cast her a rather irritated glance. "No, I haven't."

Pansy stopped, and tugged on his arm so that he turned to face her. "I don't mean to annoy you, Draco. I know that it's difficult for you to decide, and I think I know the reason, as well. Do you blame Our Lord for your father's death?"

Draco sniffed derisively. "No. I don't blame 'your Lord' in the least. I think his cause – well, more the way he goes about it than anything – is idiotic, and I think Father was stupid to join. Therefore, it was Father's fault. However, I do not wish to repeat his mistakes, and naturally have an aversion to joining that which killed him."

"You _do_ blame Our Lord. No, shush. Listen to me. What happened to your father was terrible, but it was neither his fault nor Our Lord's. Our Lord's greatest enemies are Dumbledore and Harry Potter, and your father bent all his efforts toward their ruin. He was captured only because he fought so hard for what he knew to be right.

"The Ministry is corrupt. For a long time – all through Our Lord's years of suffering – it was corrupt in our favour, but the tides have turned against us. I'm sure you weren't told, but your father's trial might as well have been conducted by children at play. His lawyer was incompetent and the jury was horribly biased." Draco tried to speak again, but she cut him off.

"Let me finish! Yes, I am aware of Our Lord's failings. The attack on the Ministry last year was foolish: their blind ignorance had been working to our advantage and he ruined it. His obsession with Potter is ridiculous, even in light of that Prophecy – yes, I know about that; my cousins told me. But his Cause his righteous and he is brilliant.

"I didn't give him my loyalty because it was a 'trend' among the Slytherins, and no one else I know has either. We have, all of us, come to the conclusion that he is a true leader and will lead us to victory. I know that you scoff at the letters you receive, and I don't blame you in the slightest. They were penned by Madame Lestrange, without Our Lord's consent, and I'm afraid they're a bit…overzealous. That's not what it's really like at all.

"We have collected the Dementors, many of the Giants, some Werewolves, and an array of Dark Creatures. Our human ranks are growing exponentially. We're mustering an army that's more than worthy to combat that which the so-called 'Good Side' can form. We're a force to be reckoned with, Draco. I know you want to choose the side that not only fights for the right cause, but has the means to win. We _do_.

"Will you at least consider it?"

She stood in front of him, her face deadly serious. She was holding both of his hands in hers and squeezing them tightly, as if doing so would help convince him.

Draco was at a bit of a loss. It was rare that anyone but his Father gave him such a lengthy speech, and he honestly didn't know what to say. Her points were valid, though he suspected some of it was purely propaganda (for example, he knew that very few Dark Creatures had been secured), and he _had_ been considering joining the Dark Lord ever since he had seen the number of Death Eaters.

"I will…" he paused "definitely think about it." There it was again. The cursed phrase.

Her sober mood was broken and she grinned. "How eloquent! I _do_ hope you join, though." She bit her lip and looked down at the ground and then up through her lashes coquettishly. "I rather like you, after all. Wouldn't want you to join the losing side." And then she darted forward and kissed him, intending it to be teasing and light, but he caught her and pulled her back. 

The pair of them fell onto the grass, where they were later discovered by Hagrid's untrained, slobber-mouthed Boarhound who interrupted them rudely. Abashed and significantly damper, they headed back toward the castle. It was getting dark, anyway.

Their hands were linked, though more tightly than before, and they talked about Quidditch and classes. Pansy tried to lean her head against Draco's shoulder as they walked, but soon found this to be very uncomfortable and contented herself with occasionally brushing up against him.

He didn't mind in the least.

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

I've turned into a henpecked sap. I really, truly, have. Pansy confronted me on my 'loyalties' today and went off on a **very** long speech, which basically recounted the various ways in which Lord V. was benefiting the world.

Of course I've been thinking about it, and Pansy made a lot of sense. Besides, I do like her and wouldn't want to be on opposite sides of the war. And Lord V. has made a **very** generous offer. Should I take him up on it?

Everyone except Blaise has joined – have I mentioned this already? I think I have. Anyway, so many people can't be wrong, can they? I mean, the murders and such are for the really… serious… people. It's not as if Greg or Vince or Pansy has killed anyone, and I don't expect to either. Not that I'd flinch from it if I had to.

Where does the 'Good Side' get off, going on about how we're all killers and torturers? They do just as much executing and inquisitioning as we do – we just call them by their proper names! Look at what they did to Father! I wouldn't be at all surprised if Pansy were correct – I've been wondering on the rapidity of the trial for a while, though I haven't confided to even you. I think I'll investigate.

On a less-serious side note, my hair is driving me mad. I'm forsaking the gel and am going to see what it does if I simply wash and brush it. If it's too awful, I'll simply subject myself to putting it into a tiny ponytail. I wish there were a hair-lengthening charm that didn't wear off in an hour! Growing it out is hell. Who invented that stupid tradition anyway?

Oh, well. When it is long, it will make up for the pain of growing it. Father could walk into a room and instantly command respect, just from his appearance. All Malfoy men could. The hair is one of our many trademarks.

… you'd think after so many hundred of years, someone would come up with a bloody decent **spell**?

Anyway. Another D.E. meeting next week. I'll report on it then.

****

.

A/N A bit shorter than previous chapters, but it wanted to end here and, hey, who am I to argue with the fic? But I've got a bloated Author's Note and Review Section to make up for it. (Oy)

Enormous cuddles to **Cardigan Pantalones** (as per usual) for her marvellous, fantastic, (patient) beta skills! Also to **SnowSpiKe**, who is now the featured illustrator. (Squeedle!) Furthermore Coulden was cameo'd from Descent into Darkness, which I (very briefly) beta'd for, so she isn't mine. (whether beta'd chapters were ever posted, I don't know)

For my FFN devotees, (hah, like I have devotees… *grin*) I'll be hosting the art on my site, which is linked in by bio/profile. Just click the little author-link up there. *waves hands* As of today, three pics from chapter one are up on my site. When all the art is done, I'll be reposting the chapter on FictionAlley with links and small changes, and on FFN with just the changes.

added somewhat later: My beta *points at Cardigan* has brought my attention to the fact that the Death Eater's referral to the Dark Lord as 'Our Lord' and my capitalisation of 'He' and 'Him' may offend some people. I wish to assure you that the similarity of address is completely unintentional. Thank you.

And now, what you've all been waiting for… **REVIEW THANKING TIME! Whee!**

Katherine4 (twice!): *grins and hugs* You nice person! Thank you!

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elysian shades: *grins* It'll be slash, don't worry - just not for a bit. I've never seen BtVS, so I don't know about Buffy's reincarnations beside the fact that several of my friends went mad over it. Thank you so much, and I'm glad you liked it! And I'm so flattered that I'm on your favourites. *blushes*

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Carol: *hugs* Thank you! I've gone over ian's review in detail below (mostly to make myself feel better), and your comment cheered me up immensely. *grins*

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Nez: *laughs* Well, it'll be slash, so I hope that appeases your inner slash fanatic. Thank you – I was so nervous about the Voldie Scene. I keep wanting to make do something ridiculous and have to hit myself over the head and scream "NOT A HUMOUR FIC! BAD, MACABE!" As for Hr/P… Eh… I don't think it's going to happen. If you like, you can pretend that the fight scene in Chapter 2 was unresolved sexual tension or something. ^.^ And I'm sure Pansy will do something nasty to Hermione in the future, and I hereby dedicate all future innuendoes of that nature to you. 

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And now, for my first-ever negative review…

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ian: since you seem to have disliked this so much I doubt you'll read the review, but I'm going to answer it anyway, as it's the first negative review I've had in my four years of fanfiction writings.

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there seem to be a problem here. first, the extreme ooc-ness of the casts. (Not to mention harry being so damn cheerful all the time. uh.)   
Really? Everyone else seems to think I've caught the characterisation fairly well. Harry is, as you see in this chapter, most definitely _not_ cheerful. I will admit that his attitude in the Detention/Astro-tower scene was a bit awkward, and – as I state below - I plan on rewriting it. 

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and what's with harry creeping around to get malfoy out of detention? even if it was those idiots crabbe and goyle's fault, he isn't *that* low to swallow his pride and free malfoy from detention just beacause of some dumb assignment. hell, even voldemort didn't get harry to bow his head to him.

Harry was _bored_. He wasn't actually interested in getting Malfoy out of anything, he just didn't have anything better to do and Crabbe and Goyle had filched his homework. And 'bow his head'? When did Harry bow his head? Or swallow his pride?_  
and, if ever harry's *actually* to free someone from detention, he's not *that* stupid either to just appear out of nowhere inside the room and realises he doesnt have a way out. _

Alright, point. This is why I want to rewrite the scene. The fic was just getting started and I wanted some kind of Harry-Draco-interaction catalyst to get it rolling. Within the next month or so, I will repost the first chapter. (It would be sooner, but [on FictionAlley, which allows fanart linkages] I also am waiting till the fanart for the fic is finished.)_  
and if you didn't know, draco's always the one to start the fight weather in the books or in the movies. harry's not dumb to get himself into detention. except for some occasions; he deals with death every now and then, you know. lots of people want him dead._

Harry's _lucky_ not to get a detention. Look at all the times he so-very-nearly escaped from getting caught! Besides, Harry doesn't get detention – that's _Draco_. And, with his new!improved!angry!nature in the fifth book, Harry is more than capable of picking a fight. Furthermore, if he were as suspicious of death plots as you imply, I highly doubt that he would fall into traps quite so often.

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equally frustrating, is that you try to write your fanfic in such a way that could only be seen through draco's point of view. (things like potters idiocity and such.) its afanfic, true, but at least try and figure out a more "believable" plot.

This is called Perspective, or the more commonly used POV (point of view). Almost every non-Harry-centric fanfic uses this. And this isn't, as you can clearly see, a Harry-centric-fanfic. It would be impossible to convey what I do in this story if it were seen solely from Harry's eyes.

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lastly, really, i think the way you right is pretty conventional. nothing i've never seen before. who told you that anyway? must be a friend of yours or something. 'cause critics wouldn't say it that way. and i certainly won't.

Ouch. If you really disliked like the story that strongly, I can think of many ways you might have expressed your opinion in a more, ah, delicate manner.

In conclusion, I'm very sorry you were so displeased with my work and I hope that I didn't offend you by printing your review here or by my lengthy answer to it.


	4. Choosing Sides

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The Malfoy Code

Choosing Sides

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When Draco felt the hand upon his shoulder, his first thought was _Father_. It was exactly the way his Father used to wake him: not a shake or a brush of the fingers, but a firm, strong pressure from a large palm. Then the fingers closed over the curve of his shoulders and squeezed a bit, almost massaging, and he knew that it wasn't.

"Draco. Draco, wake up."

He rolled onto his side and rubbed a hand against his eyes, clearing his vision. Pansy was only visible in outline, but her hair and voice identified her. He mumbled her name as he propped himself on his elbow, reaching into his pyjama pocket for his wand.

"Draco. Honestly, you're such a deep sleeper. I don't understand it; Slytherins usually aren't, and I thought your fa-family" she'd almost said 'father' "had trained you on such things."

"Can't help it. Besides, Pratt snores. I need to sleep deeply." He reached up blindly, meaning to caress her cheek, and brushed her nose instead. "Guh. Can't see a thing. _Lumos_."

The light flickered on and illuminated Pansy's face; the set of her mouth was impatient and slightly irritated, though it didn't appear to be directed entirely at him. She was wearing a strappy, sparkly black creation with the heavy, modest Death Eater's cloak thrown over it. Her hair had been twisted and curled into an elaborate, elegant confection that Draco's fingers ached to dishevel. (There was something ultimately satisfying about messing someone's hair, especially if the styling had taken time.) She was half-kneeling on the bed, one long, bare leg supporting her weight on the floor.

His eyes moved reluctantly away from his girlfriend and took in the solid bulk of Greg; the towering giant that was Vince; and the slender, auburn-haired form of Scivi Pratt. They were all wearing their finest dress robes.

"Put the damn _light_ out, Malfoy! I'm trying to get some sleep!" Blaise groaned from the bed to his left, and slammed a pillow down over his eyes. Greg reached backward and yanked Blaise's curtain closed.

"Meeting?" Draco inquired.

Greg nodded. "Yeah. It's going to be pretty fancy; there'll be Full Order initiations tonight. Like the other week multiplied by ten."

"Wear the black robe with red trim," Pansy commanded, "not the high-necked one. The red-trim set makes you look very…" she hesitated, searching for the correct word. "powerful," she said at last, though it didn't seem to really be what she was thinking.

He sniffed. "Well, yes. I outgrew the other set last year." He glanced at her attire and decided that something needed to be said. "You look nice."

Pansy glowed briefly, then curbed it. "Thank you." Her neck was turning a very unsophisticated shade of pink and she took several steps backward. "Um. Get dressed and meet me in the Common Room," she said, and left.

Pratt raised an eyebrow at Draco, his large eyes flicking to the door through which Pansy had left, and made a crude gesture. Vince observed this and gave Draco a wry smile before marching Scivi out of the room. Greg, who always seemed to be trailing after someone, followed.

Ten minutes later, Draco emerged from the dorm, clad in his scarlet and black dress robe. He had combed his hair but had not gelled it, as it now reached his collar. Pansy gave him a mildly surprised look and tugged on one pale blond lock. He swatted at her hand and she grinned.

"Shall we go?" Scivi said, bored.

"Yes," said Pansy, "let's." She removed a small, leather-like pouch from her pocket and upturned it on the table. A rough stone, such as you might see in any rocky area, rolled onto the wooden surface. Pansy glanced at the clock, then beckoned for the group to join her.

Draco drew closer and laid his fingertips against the rock. Scivi, Vince, and Greg crowded around, and Millicent Bulstrode led the three other Slytherin girls into the circle. Several had to crouch down. 

"Ten seconds," Pansy said, and her free hand squeezed Draco's wrist. Everyone's eyes moved to the clock.

"Are you ready?" Greg asked Draco, but never received an answer.

****

.

"Are you ready, Master Malfoy?"

Draco looked into Wormtail's eyes. The older man seemed to be… distracted. As if he had far more important things to worry about.

He hesitated for another moment, then thought of Pansy and her pleading blue eyes, her belief in the 'Cause'. He thought of Vince and Greg, and their joining. Greg was a follower, born and bred, but Vince was logical and straightforward; he would not be swayed to this side unless he had a very good reason. 

But his Father… And had Snape been trying to warn him?

"The Lord requires an answer tonight, Master Malfoy. You have kept him waiting long enough."

Draco narrowed his eyes, and was pleased when Wormtail very nearly cringed under the Lucius-like stare. "Tell your Lord that I will join the Young Order tonight, and the Full Order when I feel that I am ready."

"I am afraid, Master Malfoy, that that is not an option," Moon said, almost respectfully. "The Dark Lord has offered you a bargain, but it is not negotiable. You will join the Death Eaters tonight, or you will endure the Young Order for a year or more, as your classmates do."

His hands clenched and the nails dug into the skin. "I-" he started, and hesitated. Well, he'd just have to be more careful than Father, wouldn't he? Father had been far too open about it. And there was strength in numbers and the entire upper faction of Slytherin House was joining… All ten seventh years, having arrived by a different portkey, were clustered in the far left corner of the room.

Moon's gaze pierced him.

"I-" said Draco again, and forced himself into coherency. "I will join the… Full Order tonight."

Moon's large, blockish head dipped in an accepting nod. "I will inform the Dark Lord of your decision." He turned and made his way across the room. Draco noted that Moon's boisterous nature, so apparent at the last meeting, appeared to have faded.

Pansy's hand settled on his shoulder, making him flinch with surprise. He recovered quickly and pulled her around to him so that her back pressed against his chest. She let out a brief squeak as he draped an arm around her. "Oh, you're wonderful," she said softly.

"I'm joining," he said.

"I know. I'm thrilled. I'm so glad you listened to me and the others… Imagine! You'll be a _Death Eater_ tonight. The youngest in years and years." She sighed, pleased, and leaned her head against the crook between his neck and shoulder.

"I'm just wondering if I'm doing this for good reasons."

She laughed. "I'm almost inclined to say that 'good reasons' are a Gryffindor concept, but I rather suspect that their reasons are bad and they merely claim otherwise. But what are your reasons?"

"Because you are, which is rather Greg-like. And because my Mother wants me to. Because I'm following in my Father's footsteps, and because I may succeed where he failed. Because it's a good offer. Because… because he asked me to make a decision quickly and it seemed to be a good idea at the time."

She laughed again. "Well, those _are_ rather bad reasons, then. But there are good reasons to. Our Lord's dream of uniting Britain, Muggle and Wizard, under one just government… His system of Muggleborn classification… Draco, the man is _brilliant_! And he's not aloof and falsely kind like Dumbledore; he tells you exactly where you are and what he wants you to be doing. He's rather like –" and here she was cut off by Moon's amplified voice.

"We will be instating three new members into the Full Order tonight. The first is Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy." A murmur here and there at Lucius' name, but largely silence. Moon's eyes met his own and the older man jerked his head. Draco disentangled himself from Pansy, who whispered 'Luck!' as he passed, and made his way through the black-robed crowd to the dais.

As he drew nearer, Moon began to speak again. Evidently, the Full Order initiations were conducted with quite a bit more ceremony than their lesser counterparts. "Master Malfoy has long supported our cause. We have received many reports and commendations on his devotion to the Cause and his general conduct. Because of his exemplary record, Our Lord has seen fit to grant him the privilege of joining both the Young Order and the Full in the same night." He fell quiet as Draco stepped onto the platform.

The tall, heavily cloaked figure seated on the throne (He had been standing during Pansy's initiation. Draco wondered as to the cause of the change.) turned its head toward him and reached out with an improbably long arm, fingers beckoning. Draco extended his own left arm, and winced as the cold palm closed around his wrist, drawing him forward. The hooded head bent downward in concentration and the thin wand pressed against Draco's skin, making it dimple. The Dark Lord's breath, surprisingly hot, whistled across the fine hairs on the back of Draco's hand. His fingers clenched the arm of the chair.

"I hope that you are less of a disappointment than your Father," the Dark Lord said, speaking so softly that it was almost inaudible. "It would sadden me to see the noble Malfoy line die off."

Draco stiffened and involuntarily tried to jerk his arm away. The grip was too strong.

"Still, young Malfoy. I will not harm you without cause." 

Draco forced his breathing to slow. He was doing this for good reasons. He was. 

"_Ecce Morsemordre_!"

Unlike Pansy's snake, which had slithered and winded its way into her flesh, this one burst from the Dark Lord's wand, head snapping out as if it wished devour Draco whole. Instead of biting him, though, it dove straight into his skin. He let out a brief, surprised scream and dug his nails into the fabric of the chair.

"_In signo Morsmordre vinces_."

His arm burst into flame, and Draco screamed much louder and at length this time, trying to pull back but unable to free himself from the Dark Lord's brittle, impossibly strong fingers. The pain was incredible: it was not merely on his arm but _in_ his arm, searing through flesh and bone. He had read the description 'boiled his blood' before, but had never equated it to anything but alliteration until this. He leaned his full weight against the Dark Lord; pulling, screaming, beating at his arm ineffectually with his free hand.

And then he was released and fell backwards, tumbling off the dais and crashing into some anonymous figure behind him, who quickly moved aside. He lay on the ground, breathing raggedly and clutching his forearm. The sleeve of his robe had been charred off, but the skin was smooth and unburned. His right hand, though, that he had used to bat at the flame… It screamed with pain.

Hands and elbows clustered around him from all directions, lifting him up and pushing him here and there. He didn't really notice.

Shortly, he was lain across a magnificent chaise, and several people made busy applying salve to his roasted hand and casting a barrage of warding spells over his newly acquired Dark Mark. (And yes, he had tilted his head just far enough to see the charred-black snake and skull emblem freshly engraved into his skin.)

Pansy, too, was kneeling over him, and he could see Vince and Greg peering round the back.

"… your hand will be alright," she was saying soothingly, "and whatever pain you have in your arm will fade shortly. Oh, Draco, you were fantastic. I couldn't imagine standing there and just _taking it_, like you did. It will be my turn eventually, so I suppose I'll have to, but… You were so stoic." He stared as her and wondered if she hadn't been able to hear him screaming or see him flailing.

"I've never seen anyone take it so well," Vince added, and his tone wasn't sarcastic. They actually _did_ think he'd been calm. He half-wondered if he'd dreamed it, if it had been a quiet affair and the terrible pain and panic had only come in a nightmare. More likely, however, was that some merciful soul had cast an illusion spell. He propped himself up on his elbows and tried to pick out anyone looking at him, but (aside from Pansy, Vince, and Greg), everyone's attention was fixed on the screaming man on the platform.

The scene ended shortly, the man falling to his knees and sobbing, and the audience quickly lost interest. Much shuffling and meandering about followed, and Millicent made her way over to them.

"Hello," she said, her eyes sweeping over the lot of them. "How's Malfoy doing?"

Draco glared. He had never really liked Millicent: she tended to address everyone but the person she was actually talking to. "Fine, thank you," he said.

"Oh, right, good. Any idea when the party bit starts?"

"Party?" Greg asked, his brow wrinkling.

"There's a party tonight, with dancing and refreshments and everything. That's why we came in dress robes," Vince explained, and turned back toward Draco and Pansy. "Will you promise not to get too drunk this time? You were pretty smashed when you left last meeting, and I don't know if Malfoy here's up for it." Draco made a resentful noise. 

Pansy shook her head. "Well, I don't know about Draco, but _I'm_ not getting drunk again anytime soon." She gave a mock-shudder. "Ouhh! Getting caught by Snape like that…"

The left half of Millicent's prominent singular eyebrow raised and her mouth twisted wryly. "Oh? You never did tell us how you earned those two months of detention." Pansy sent her a scathing glare and Millicent's smirk grew wider.

"Well," Draco said abruptly to break the tension, "my hand feels much better now, and it appears that they've begun to serve the food and drink. Fancy a Butterbeer, Pansy?" She nodded, and took his arm as he stood. 

Her right arm linked with his left and brushed over the newly acquired Dark Mark. It sent a wave of sensation that was both pleasant and awful and caused him to miss a step and stumble briefly. Pansy hesitated, but evidently drew the conclusion that he had only tripped, and continued to navigate her way through the crowd, Draco following after her.

There were two queues for the food: one for the Young Order, one for the full-fledged Death Eaters. Draco and Pansy parted ways, and Draco briefly reflected that one up-side to the painful ordeal he had just been subjected was the prospect of shorter lines. There were far fewer Death Eaters than there were members of the Young Order.

Upon reaching the head of the line he took a Butterbeer (they offered a fine selection of alcohol, but he didn't think he could get away with another one-day detention) and some sort of delicate snowflake-shaped sweet, and wandered off to find Pansy.

"Are you looking for Parkinson?"

Draco's head snapped around and he narrowly avoided smashing the snow-cookie into Scivi's jaw. "What?"

Scivi continued, unperturbed. He was used to surprising people and could get away with it because of his towering size. Though he was quite possibly the most purposely annoying boy in school, no one dared to challenge him to either a fight or a duel. (Unlike Draco or Pansy, none of the hexes Scivi knew were fatal. All of them, however, were terribly humiliating.) "Pansy. Your girlfriend. Are you looking for her? Her parents came to collect her while you were waiting in line. I think they wanted to have some sort of private talk." He grinned and clapped Draco on the back. "No matter, though! She'll be back later this evening, I dare say. Anyway, I wanted to talk with you a bit, without the girls listening in."

He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I've got a little… surprise… planned for the Mudbloods on Halloween. I'm receiving help from a few people here, but I thought you might be interested in joining in. It's really going to be a spectacle… a real demonstration, showing our power and their debasement. What do you think?"

Had it been anyone else, Draco would have agreed immediately. Nothing, though, went right when Scivi was involved. Oh, not in the way that things went wrong about Longbottom – Scivi was always perfectly in control of events – but he never told you exactly _what_ it was that he was planning, and it was _always_ worse than you had been lead to believe. Added to that, he had an uncanny ability for avoiding blame. When fingers were pointed they invariably landed on you. Draco, too, usually managed to skip out of trouble, but he wasn't about to test his luck.

"No," he said, "I don't think that I have time… Between Pansy and, ah, _Family Matters_," he took care to strain the phrase, as if to say 'things are difficult for us right now', and was pleased to see Scivi's eyes widen in understanding, "I'm quite over extended. Perhaps next year?" 

Scivi shrugged. "Well, whatever I come up with then will be different from now, but we'll see. It's really too bad that you can't – it's going to be amazing. Ah, well – you'll see come Halloween!" He gave Draco one last clap on the back, though this one had a bit more force than the last, and strode briskly off to leer at some hapless new recruit. 

Draco leaned against the wall and sipped at his drink, watching the dark-clothed figures move and shuffle and occasionally attempt an ill co-ordinated dance or two before giving up on any semblance of order and retreating back into their huddled clusters to discuss various plots and theories. This went on for the better part of two hours.Millicent sidled up to him. She had been one of the better dancers, and was still quite miffed that no one else in the room could – or would – match her in a dance. Guessing that her intention was to ask him, Draco quickly declined. Though he was fairly good at it, he loathed dancing and, besides, he didn't want to incur Pansy's temper by dancing with another girl while she was gone.

Millicent's pleasant though distantly unattractive face briefly reflected mild hurt and insult from the speed of his reply, but it disappeared immediately. "That's not what I wanted to talk about," she said irately.

"Then what?"

She shrugged. "Nothing very important, but my mum was talking to yours, and I'm supposed to pass along the message. Apparently, Mrs Malfoy is concerned about you, wants to know about your alliances and involvement in the Death Eaters and so on, and wishes that you'd come back to the Manor for Christmas Break." She recited, as if ticking off a list, then added: "Have I fulfilled my role as messenger sufficiently?"

He gave a brief, insincere smile. "Yes, quite. If she requires a return message, tell her that I'll send my owl."

Millicent sniffed. "I'll be sure to." She looked away, her eyes darting over the room, then returned her gaze to him. "The Death Eaters will be leaving on their latest mission soon. I suggest you get the concealment spell from one of them first, if you haven't already."

He pulled his sleeve up, displaying an unmarked alabaster forearm. "Someone thought to cast it on me directly after I received it. And the Death Eaters are leaving? Do you know if I'm to go with them?"

She shrugged. "I've no idea. I wouldn't think so, though – you're still recovering from your initiation." She grabbed his hand, startling him, and examined it. "It looks like it will be fine, though it may be stiff for a day or two. Whoever healed you was impressively quick with the burn salve. It's almost completely healed already." He gave her a curious look and she explained. "I want to become a Healer at Mungo's, and I'm taking an extra class with Madame Pomfrey. She's an annoying old bat, but she's the only one in the castle who knows a thing about medicine."

Millicent released his hand and he took it back, stuffing it self-consciously into a pocket. "Well," he said apathetically, "that's nice to know. Do you know when Pansy will be back?"

Her eyes narrowed. "No. She didn't tell me." She whirled around and nearly crashed into Vince, who had been approaching. "I hope Malfoy's hands heal well," she fairly snapped to him, and strode briskly off.

Vince gave Draco a curious look and handed him another snowflake-shaped cookie. "Want one?"

Draco waved it away and Vince shrugged, taking a bite of his own. "Suit yourself," he said, after he'd finished chewing, "they're fantastic. Anyway, I thought I'd come over and talk to you, seeing as Pansy's gone off with her family and you're all alone." 

Draco made a noncommittal noise and Vince sent him an exasperated glare. "I know I'm not the world's most invigorating conversationalist, but you could prevent yourself from falling asleep. Besides, I didn't really intend to delve into the complicated depths of the Malfoy psyche; I'm not up for that sort of thing tonight. Here, I brought your book." He reached into the voluminous sleeves of his robes and drew out _Life on the Quidditch Pitch_.

Draco grinned. "Vince, you're brilliant." The boy in question shrugged bemusedly and shuffled away.

Draco flipped to the bookmarked page – 237 – and began to read.

__

I am sitting in the restaurant, eyes closed. I pretend that she cannot see me – that no one can see me. I'm not famous, I am telling myself, I'm just a normal person eating a normal sandwich along with all the other normal folk. It is no use. I can feel their stares through my closed lids and dark-tinted glasses. I never wanted this, I think.

I hear someone slide onto the stool next to mine. He orders the Cauldron Special. I don't think he's noticed me yet. Then I wonder at my own egocentricity – that I should think that I am the first thing on everyone's mind! Perhaps the man sitting next to me is a muggleborn, or just dislikes Quidditch. He's never seen my face and, if he had, he couldn't care less.

Hiding from Them only encourages Them, Michael used to say. I never believed him, but I now realise that this may be true. If I stop changing cafes everyday – if I settle on just one – then everyone will know where I am and I will stop being such a curiosity. I will become a normal feature, like the chair I'm sitting on or the curious, toothless old man that tends the bar.

I..

It was at this point that Draco's mind started to wander. He had far too much to think about and the book's style was too introspective to hold his interest when he had other things on his mind. The main character annoyed him, anyway – it rather reminded him of Potter. (He privately suspected that was the very reason Vince had given it to him.) He much preferred the snide Michael, who acted as both best friend and worst enemy depending on the circumstances.

Michael, Draco thought as his eyes scanned the words with no real comprehension, was rather like what he would have been had Potter accepted his friendship that first day on the train. (This, even now, was a rather sore point for Draco, and the original motivation for making Potter's life hell.)

He thought of the refused handshake, then of the hand – oddly enough, the same one that he had burned this evening – and then of the Dark Mark gracing his other arm. What _had_ possessed him to get it? Seize the moment, one of his childhood teachers had been fond of saying, and Draco certainly had. It had been altogether too rash. He should have suffered the year in the Young Order alongside everyone else.

Pansy's huge eyes, almost worshipful, triggered in his memory, and he admitted to himself that he had – mostly – done this for her. She had looked so happy when he had been laying on the chaise, as if he had been saved from some impending disaster.

"Draco?"

He reflexively slammed the book closed, looking up with a start. Pansy stood in front of him, looking curiously amused.

"You brought a _book_ to the meeting? I wouldn't have thought it of you. Don't let any of the stricter Death Eaters see you with it, though – I think they'd be rather insulted that you weren't listening as they prattled on about Pureblood Supremacy for the hundred-thousandth time." She nodded at the dais, where a young man with dark hair was shouting emphatically, stabbing at the ceiling with one outstretched fist and sweating terribly.

"Vince had it," he explained, and tucked it under one arm. "Where were you?"

"With Father and Mum," she said, and made a face. "They were lecturing me about my grades, as usual. And then Mum let slip that-" but the rest of her words were lost as a tremendous cheer rose from the crowd. The pair turned to see that the young man had vanished and the Dark Lord himself stood upon the platform.

The noise died down, and he began to speak. His voice, though not a loud one, seemed to carry to every corner of the room.

"You are my brothers, my soldiers, my army," he began. "I know each of you by name and I value all of you.

"We march in battle, you at my side, each of us giving the other our support and confidence, fighting for a common cause against the unrighteous tyrants that govern our world. We sup at the same table and drink from the same goblet. You each, in being bound to me, have suffered pain for my cause; and I, in return, feel the pain as each of you takes my mark. You have died for me, and I have died for you. In this way, we are brothers."

"BROTHERS!" screamed the crowd. Draco found himself drawing into the mass, throat straining as he shouted along with them.

The Lord gestured for silence, and calm prevailed once more. "I have taught you, coached you, given you ideas to toy with. I am patient with those who require patience, and strict with those who require discipline. I fight for you when you can not fight for yourselves, and I unite you under me. In this way, you are my soldiers."

"SOLDIERS!"

"We are one. We come from many corners of the world, from all walks of life, and yet we all share common traits. We each recognise the evil that lies dormant alongside us, and each of us strives to purge ourselves of this evil before it consumes us. We are mothers and fathers and sons and daughters, and we are linked by knowledge and our Cause. In this way, we become an army."

"ARMY!" Pansy's grip was painful on his barely-healed hand, but he didn't notice.

"Come my brothers, my soldiers, my army! Tonight we battle those who would destroy us! TONIGHT WE STRIKE BACK!"

"YES!" 

Pops, cracks, and resounding bangs filled the hall as Death Eaters vanished right and left. Several, too young or inexperienced to apparate, clustered around one of the banquet tables that now bore various Portkeys. Draco made his way over to this group, but Pansy pulled him back.

"Not tonight," she said, "no one goes on their first night. Next time." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but her grip had not loosened since the rally.

"I'm going to fight for the Cause," he said, but she tugged hard on his arm, scowling impatiently.

"Stop it! You're being swept along by his unifying spell." He looked at her stupidly. She sighed. "He casts a spell that draws everyone into a sort of mob-like mentality, even those who would not otherwise be carried away by such things. It'll wear off in another minute or two, now that most everyone's gone."

It was true. Already, he felt rather less inclined to curse and raid and bellow his support for his Lord and Master. 

"Let's go home," she said, and pulled him over to another table of Portkeys. This one, however, had 'HOME' written over it in large, red, looping letters. It had been filled with small odds and ends, each with 'hogwarts' scrawled on it. Pansy snatched up an ancient, moulding copy of _The Daily Prophet_, and both felt the familiar tug at their navels.

****

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__

Dear Journal,

I returned from my initiation last night. Yes, I actually joined.

I'll spare you the gruesome details (and they were gruesome), and simply say that I received the mark (the full mark, that is), and burned my right hand quite badly in the process.

Scivi's up to something come Halloween, Mother wants me home for Christmas, and Lord V. uses some mass-hysteria type spell to rally us all into a bloodthirsty frenzy. I know I gloss over all the 'interesting' details, but I'd prefer not to go on for pages and pages about pain, confusion, etc.

P. and I arrived home at perhaps three or four in the morning. She proceeded to rapture on about how brave I was, how strong I was, how far I was going to go… (People who complain of my ego need to hear Pansy talk, sometimes. I can't help it.) I assured her that she was very brave as well, and we commenced with kissing. 

She actually let me get my hand halfway up her blouse before she pulled back and started scolding me. I tried to convince her that we'd gone farther before, but she was adamant that such things only counted if one was sober. Alas. Girls' logic.

Back on the subject of the Dark Mark…Flying muggles! What was I **thinking**? I've just effectively pledged my soul to the most evil (stupid) wizard in the world! He gets routinely trounced by Potter, of all things!

Well, he's also the most powerful. And I'd rather join a side that my entire house supported than tag along with the likes of Weasley, Granger, and Potter. What use is agonising over it anyway? What's done is done.

Hmm. Hair is actually not too troublesome and looks fine. I think I'll keep it like this.

I wonder who Blaise is seeing? For someone complaining about us 'keeping him up', he's out awfully late himself. He came in shortly after I'd gone to bed, at almost five. (And oh, I am tired today. Luckily, I have a free period after Potions and managed to sneak in a catnap.)

I'm sure this entry makes no sense. The words are blurring on the page. I'm going to bed.

****

.

Harry lay still, crouched under a desk with his cloak wrapped about him and desperately trying to control his breathing. Malfoy had been sitting to the left of him for the past half-hour, writing in his diary. Every few lines he would pause and stare off into space for a while, then dip his quill and write a bit more. Sometimes he would grin or frown or scowl in concentration, his face unguarded in the 'emptiness' of the room. Meanwhile Harry – who had sneaked into the Potions Classroom with the sole intention of further perusing Snape's journal – was stuck in a cramped position, anxiously waiting for the Slytherin's departure.

At long last, Malfoy finished. He set the journal aside so that the ink might dry and began to pack up his quill, inkbottle, and assorted schoolbooks. He was having some difficulty shoving the Transfiguration book in, and tilted the bag towards himself in order to make it more accessible. A small bag fell out of one of the side pockets and hit the floor, bursting open and scattering a handful of galleons and sickles every which-way.

Malfoy cursed at a considerable length and shoved his bag to the side as he scrabbled about, collecting the coins. It was only then that Harry realised that a galleon had come to rest an inch from his palm, and a sickle to the left of his elbow. He froze.

Malfoy's searching hand connected with his shoulder and paused. It swept back again and this time settled on his ribcage. Harry held his breath.

The fingers closed around the fabric of his cloak and robes and then, with one tremendous yank, dragged him from under the desk, upsetting the cloak so that his head and left leg lay exposed.

"Potter!"

Harry scrambled to his feet, self-consciously brushing himself off. "Malfoy," he retorted.

Malfoy's eyes snapped to his diary, lying open on the desk opposite them, and then back to Harry's face. He looked wild.

Before Harry could utter either an excuse or an insult, Malfoy's wand, as thin and pale as its owner, was pressed against the underside of his jaw.

"You'd better be able to explain why you were spying on me in the next twenty seconds, Potter, or I _swear_ I'll blow your head off. I've had just about enough of _you_."

"I – wasn't – spying – on – you." Harry said carefully, his hand wrapping around his wand inside his pocket.

Malfoy pressed harder. "Don't lie."

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Malfoy flew backwards, skidding across the floor and cracking his head against the wall. His wand flew from his hand in a perfect arc and Harry caught it deftly. He quickly cast a binding spell, securing Malfoy to the dungeon wall with magical ropes.

"Nice try," Harry said with no small amount of satisfaction, "but you're just not good enough, Malfoy. You never have been, you know," he added, keeping his voice light and seemingly thoughtful, "not for all the years we've been in school together. Always some hair-brained scheme to get me expelled or killed. Stronger men than you have tried it, Malfoy, and guess what?" He flung his arms out. "I'm still here!"

The lenses in his glasses cracked abruptly, and Harry dropped Malfoy's wand in surprise. The ropes had formed a tight gag around Malfoy's mouth and jaw, but his eyes were murderous. The memory of Aunt Marge's wine glass shattering in her bloated fist flashed instantly to the front of Harry's mind.

The wand quivered and jerked on the stone floor, then slowly levitated to a meter's height. Harry reached down to grab it but it evaded him and flew to its master, lodging itself among the ropes.

Malfoy's throat strained as he spat out garbled, muffled charms. Though none of these were the least bit intelligible, the ropes began to fall to pieces all around him, shrivelling and writhing on the floor like tiny snakes. Those directly touching his skin – at the wrists and face – smoked and smouldered. 

And then Malfoy was flying at him, slinging curses like mad and hell-bent on revenge, be it physical or magical. Before Harry could do more than duck, the Slytherin was on top of him, yanking at his hair and with a hand locked around his throat. He held his wand in the other hand, and the wood pressed against the back of Harry's neck as he was forced to the floor.

"You ...are... going... to... _pay_." He said. Harry tried to move but couldn't. One of the curses that had landed had, evidently, been some variation of the body bind. He took a shallow, shuddering breath. He doubted Malfoy would kill him, but there were all sorts of other cruelties he might wreak… And who knew what the Slytherins were capable of?

Seconds passed, and minutes, and still Malfoy hovered over him, unmoving save for his breath and the sweat that glistened in his hair and on his heated skin. Harry began to wonder if the boy had inadvertently stunned himself.

The door swung open and Malfoy leapt to his feet. Snape stalked through the room without a word, taking Malfoy by the wrist and nearly lifting him off his feet as he dragged him away. He forcibly pushed Malfoy into a desk, then turned and disspelled Harry (fixing his glasses in the process), who immediately scrambled to his feet.

Snape's eyes flickered from Malfoy's journal and belongings to Harry's invisibility cloak lying in a heap on the floor. Both boys stood completely still.

At last, Snape said "Go back to your dorms, both of you. Fifty points from each of your houses, and if I find you in such a state again it will be a hundred. Get out of my sight."

They obeyed.

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

I fought Potter tonight and won. It was… incredible. No, indescribable… And I don't mean that in an altogether positive way.

I attacked first, and he pinned me against the wall. And then he started **taunting** me… I can't possible convey how angry I was on paper. I've been furious before, of course – and it's usually Potter who inspires it – but nothing quite like this. He caused my Father's arrest and subsequent death and is responsible for every humiliation I have suffered in this school! And then he stands there and gloats and shoves it in my face…

I've been trained in wandless magic to a very minor extent by Father and Mother, but I've never managed to do more than **Wingardium Leviosa**, and only then when I'm terribly focused. Tonight, so angry… At first I only broke his glasses, but then he dropped my wand and I thought 'if I had that I could focus and get free of these ropes'. And I summoned it and the ropes just… melted off. It was amazing.

Again, I can't possible describe the rage. It was nothing like I've ever felt before. I've attacked – done stupid things – when angry many times, but I've never gone that far. I was prepared to kill him, I swear I was. And then I couldn't. I didn't want to, and couldn't if I had. All the anger – the strength – it had gone out of me. I don't understand it.

I talked to Pansy, and she said that something similar had happened with her when she went after Granger. She honestly was angry, but her anger was augmented beyond normal limits. I wonder if this is a side effect (or is it purposeful?) of the Dark Mark? Pansy's fury didn't evaporate at the end like mine did, but she didn't expend her magical powers, either.

I think I have to find someone, a trustworthy senior D.E., to talk to.

****

.

Ron looked up from homework as Harry came into the room. He had been working on a Transfiguration essay which was due tomorrow. The text had been fuzzing on-and-off for the last hour and a half like a muggle television with very bad reception. Because of this, he had been unable to accompany Harry on the latest expedition.

"Hey, Harry," he said, blinking furiously to clear the image of ever-reaching black print, "how did it go?"

"Bloody fantastic," Harry barked. He was staring at the floor.

Ron's eyebrows drew together and he stood, crossing the room to his friend. "What happened?"

"Malfoy. He and I got in a – in a bit of a – tiff."

Ron scrutinised him. "Well, you look alright. You must have won."

"Well, I…" Harry began, then paused. "I mean, yeah. I did. Snape just caught us and took points, that's all. And I didn't get a peek at the journal."

Ron didn't look as if believed him in the slightest, but left it alone. "Well, if you're sure."

"Yeah."

"Well, er, goodnight, then," he said, and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

Harry looked at him and tugged at the knot in his tie. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "Good luck with your essay."

"Right." Harry turned and began to plod tiredly up the stairs. Ron bit his lip and then, on impulse, reached out a hand as if to grab the other boy's shoulder from across the room. "Wait!"

Harry turned.

"You know, if you want to, um, talk…" he said hopelessly.

"Thanks. I'm fine," Harry said, and continued to the dorm.

Ron kicked the table leg and his inkbottle and quill fell off. He cursed.

****

.

A/N Well, here you are – I hope you enjoyed! Love and schnoogles to the ever-lovely SnowspiKe, the incomparable Cardigan Pantalones, and Closet Geek, who leaves absolutely beautiful reviews. (I sent you an e-mail with the lengthy answer for the review you left last chapter. If you didn't get it, let me know!) 

For everyone who was dissatisfied with Harry back in chapter one, I've posted an edited version on my site. As soon as all the artwork is done, I will re-post it on here as well. 

****

The Review Thanking Section Thing (ooh, look – short!):

OnthaEdge487 - Three Times: *grin* Thank you! Harry's the hardest to write for me, but I'm finally getting into the post-OotP mindset. *rubs hands together in evil manner* Hah. The slash shall move slowly… infinitely slowly… I shall drive the slashers MAD! Ahahahahaha.

Thank you so much – your reviews were lovely. I have such fun characterising the Slytherins. I love my Slytherins.

You're so nice. *blushes* Thank you again!

****

Katherine4: Thank you! (*grins* Pansy rocks my non-existent socks*) Hope you liked this chapter, and thank you for the Birthday song! (You're the only one who sang it… I think that makes me inhumanly lucky. 0.0) And, by the way. *BLUSH* You're so lovely! *glomps*

****

yumiko: Hope you liked this! Yes, it will be Draco/Harry, and the slash will be a while in coming, so you may bask in the Pansyness for as long as you choose. ^.^ Thank you!

__


	5. Awkward Conversations

****

The Malfoy Code

Awkward Conversations

.

"Hey, Hermione? When's the Defence essay due?" Harry asked as he rifled through the papers in his bag.

She looked up from the enormous tome she was poring over. "Excuse me?"

"The essay on 'the symbolism attached to specific constellations and how they affect us today'" he parroted Professor West's lofty tone and shook his head. "That class! I suppose we learn interesting things, but it's just _talk_."

Hermione gave a derisive sniff. "Honestly. You have no appreciation for politics. What we're learning is terribly important – just as much as the curses and wards you're so fond of! If you don't understand Yo-_Voldemort's_ motives, how on earth do you expect to ever triumph over him?"

"It's not politics," Harry insisted. "It's psychology. And I don't object to learning them, but learning them in a Defence class is mad."

She looked cross. "Oh, for heaven's sakes, Harry! It's only a chapter – no more than two weeks' study and a single essay! Stop being ridiculous."

"I'm not being _ridiculous_," he snapped, "I'm just making a point. I only wanted to know when the essay was _due_."

"Tomorrow!" she barked, then softened. "Listen, you've worked yourself into a temper. Go out, calm down, and finish your essay. When you're more pleasant, come back and we can chat a bit."

"I've an entire essay to write," he said blandly, picking up his bag "so I'll be out quite late. Don't wait for me." Her face sagged with hurt, but he had already turned his back and started downstairs.

Hermione pressed her palms against the open pages of her book, biting her lower lip between her teeth quite hard. She rocked back and forth very slightly. The text kept blurring in front of her eyes. She combed a hand through unruly hair which caught and pulled at her fingers. "He doesn't really mean it," she said softly, more to reassure herself than anything.

She focused on the book. It was a very difficult read, which meant that she hadn't room in her mind for anything else. She liked difficult books.

****

.

Harry stopped at the library and borrowed something entitled Symbolism!, though he wasn't sure how helpful it would be. He distrusted books with exclamation marks in their titles.

Hermione, he thought, was so… _patronising_. She thought that the world needed to be lead on a leash, with her as its master. And then, as her apology, she offered to sit down and _talk_!

It wasn't the talking that ate at him, but rather the manner in which she said it. It sounded like the kind of thing she'd say to an errant child, not a boy four months older and five inches taller than her!

He was climbing the long, winding staircase to the Astronomy Tower, and his legs were pumping furiously. That Oh-Let's-Help-Poor-Harry-Who's-Lost-His-Parents-And-Godfather-And-Contributed-To-The-Death-Of-An-Innocent-Boy pitiful stare!

His breathing was ragged. He leaned against the wall at the top of the stair, panting lightly.

"Whoever you are, don't bother me. I've very nearly found M5."

Harry very nearly jumped. A large figure was bent over a Muggle telescope just a few meters to his left, carefully adjusting the dials.

"M5?"

"The M stands for Messier," the person said softly. It was a female voice. "It's a categorising system Muggles use."

"You're muggleborn, then?" he asked, not knowing what else to say.

She laughed. "No, not at all. But Sinistra had us do a report last year, at the end of term… I'm sure you remember, Potter – everyone complained terribly about its length. I did mine on Muggle Astronomy, and I'm afraid I became quite fascinated. Using the telescope, rather than a simple viewing spell… it's almost an art." Her voice faded in and out: it began almost incomprehensibly quietly, then rose to a normal speaking level briefly before dropping to a whisper again.

Harry didn't know what to say. "You like Astrology?"

"It's alright," she said apathetically. "The myths interest me, as does the technology muggles use." She pulled away from the telescope momentarily, squinting at the sky. Her hair was fairly dark – either red or brown.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know your name," he said. He felt as if he should. Her voice was very familiar. (Not to say he'd heard it often – he hadn't – but one didn't soon forget such an odd voice.)

"Daphne Greengrass, Slytherin. I'm in your year," she said. "And as for you… no introduction needed. Everyone knows Harry Potter." It was said without any malice, but it was still faintly hostile.

"Right, yes," he said. He remembered Daphne. She was very pretty, and always sat at the back of the class – often sleeping, picking at her nails, or winding her hair around her fingers. She very rarely talked to anyone, and the teachers never called on her.

Silence prevailed for a few minutes, before she let out a pleased purr. "Finally. Bloody Muggles."

"You found it, then?"

"Yes." She still wasn't looking at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm doing an essay for Defence class. On constellations," he elaborated. "Mine's Orphiuchus." He nodded at the sky. "I was always rubbish at Astrology, though. All I know is that it's somewhere in that area, where your telescope's pointing. Is that right?"

She nodded in recognition. "Yes, it is. What are you writing?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Something about how his struggle with the serpent symbolises the endless battle between good and evil, or some such rot."

"Ridiculous," she sniffed. "Orphiuchus symbolises nothing of the kind. Serpents have to do with medicine and miracles, not evil and eternal conflict... Orphiuchus is the serpent _bearer_. Where did you do your research?" 

He shrugged. "Mostly, I thought it up. Snakes are usually evil." His eyes strayed to the Slytherin badge on her robes. He could only see its shape in this light, but he knew what it was. "I mean, represented as evil. Most of the time. Because of – of biblical implications and, er, stuff. Not that they're always evil."

He thought she was sobbing for a minute, before realising that the shaking and the curious, hiccuping gasps were _laughter_. "Potter, you're more articulate than even Malfoy's made you out to be! Oh!" She shook her head in mirth. Finally, once she'd calmed down somewhat, she began to explain the myths and meanings to him at length. 

And hour passed, then two, with the two of them crouched over Harry's paper. Sometimes her arm would brush his, and he would freeze. She seemed unaffected. At last they finished, and he slid his freshly inked paper inside his book and stood.

"Leaving, then, are you?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Maybe not just yet. I don't really feel like sleep."

Daphne raised a slim, gently arched eyebrow. "I've never heard anyone say that they didn't 'feel like sleep' before… Why don't you?" Her eyes flicked up to his forehead. He had brushed his bangs over his scar. "Nightmares?"

"Yes," he said simply.

She sat down on one of the stone benches and crossed her legs. Her hand rubbed the granite next to her; almost an invitation to sit down. Harry didn't. "What about?"

"Things," he said.

She looked vaguely hurt. "You can trust me, you know. I'm not a Death Eater." She pulled up the sleeve of her left arm to demonstrate smooth, ivory skin. He reached out to touch her arm and she moved away. "No. I don't… like to be touched."

"You didn't seem uncomfortable before, when you were nearly sitting on top of me," Harry pointed out. "Just let me touch your arm." He reached again, and she shied away.

"No! Can't you hear? Don't touch me!" Her voice had not risen above its norm, only gotten shriller and acquired a slightly hysterical note.

Harry didn't believe her. "You _are_ a Death Eater. That's why you don't want me to touch you – because I'll know."

She started to sob. "Tha-that's not it at all!"

Harry took several steps backward, suddenly thrown off balance. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to accuse you –it was completely irrational… I'm sorry. Please, I didn't mean to upset you…" he said helplessly.

She calmed down slowly, taking great gasping breaths. She was petting the fabric of her sleeves nervously. "I'm sorry, too… that I had such a reaction. I just don't like my skin touched. It was alright before, because it was just fabric. But I don't like my skin touched." She turned from him to rummage in the small bag she'd stored beside the bench and drew out a lacy handkerchief, which she then used to dab at her cheeks.

She stood. "I should be getting back to my dorm. You should, as well. It's quite late."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Er, thank you for your help, and I'm horribly sorry that I, um, accused you like that. I had no right. I've gotten as paranoid as Moody!" he attempted a bashful smile, and managed a nervous grin.

She nodded, smiled in a slightly sad way, and turned to leave. He watched her go, collected his quill and inkbottle from the floor, tucked his book and essay under an arm, and left. 

He wondered if all Slytherins were so emotionally unstable, or if Daphne was a special case. He wondered if she even really was, or if it had been an act, as he'd originally thought, to prevent him from touching her arm. 

He wondered a good many more things as he crawled into bed and pulled the curtains shut, but sleep prevailed and he soon closed his eyes.

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

Hmm. The red-headed girl in Pansy's dorm (I can never remember her real name, but everyone calls her Queenie. I think that's her mother's name or middle name or something, and she mis-introduced herself with it during first year.) just sneaked in. As Prefect, I naturally asked where she'd been, and she sort of stammers and blushes and says 'Astronomy Tower. Work for the Cause.' before scampering up to the girls' dorms.

I asked Pansy about her. P. thinks her real name begins with a 'D' – Delia or Dahlia or Daisy or something – but she's always been called Queenie. She's dead average: moderate grades, no odd opinions, keeps to herself and doesn't talk much. (As is evidenced by the fact that no one can even remember her real name.) Ah, well. If she's suspiciously late again, I'll look into it. Neither Pansy nor Vince trusts her a bit.

Whatever it is that Scivi's been orchestrating for Halloween, it's huge. He's hardly sleeping for sneaking outside at all hours. (I let **him**, of course, because I know what he's doing. Or at least the general direction of what he's doing. Am I biased?) 

The book's going well… the thing's bloody huge, though! It only looks to be perhaps three hundred-some pages, but it's all a reduction charm – it's well over eight hundred! Michael and the main character (You never learn his name throughout the book. It drives me mad.) had a bit of a tiff and now the main character's off sulking, as usual. The git really does remind me of Potter.

Well, it's terribly late, and I really should be off to bed. It's Wednesday tomorrow, not Saturday, and I've got a positively head-splitting exam in Arithmancy.

****

.

"Mr Lamb. Please come in."

The room was lavishly decorated, all done in scarlet and cherry wood. Thick drapes and tapestries cushioned the walls, a luxurious hand-woven Persian carpet coated the floor, and everything had pillows. 

Mr Lamb did not fit in with his surroundings. He was a small man, quite pale, with a worried face and a hairline that had receded to ear-level. His eyes were steady, though, and his elegant hands did not tremble even now, in the presence of such a _thing_.

"Mr Lamb. I understand that you have news for us. No, no, sit down! Sit down. Please, make yourself comfortable. Now… what news have you brought me?"

Mr Lamb sat down, though he did not look as if he was in the least comfortable. The manner in which he spoke was almost fidgety, as if he couldn't quite keep his words still. "Doctor Thomson approved of your more recent payment. He would appreciate more, ah, freshly minted currency in the future, but the last selection was nicely diverse. He and his, ah, employees quite enjoyed spending it, he says."

Mr Lamb cleared he throat and continued. "He says that he would be most pleased to, ah, do business with you in the future. He wishes to enquire if he might have the privilege of taking a small – inconsequentially small – cut of the profit when you acquire the, ah, item which you are so anxious to obtain.

"In the mean time, Doctor Thomson requests that he and his employees be given more adequate, suitable quarters than those they currently occupy. He understands that you have recently contracted several major, ah, companies, and that you are having difficulties housing all of them, but promptness would be greatly appreciated, as we have been, ah, hiring many new, ah, staff."

The thing before him nodded. "Yes. I will look into it." It thoughtfully caressed the arm of the great chair in which it sat; the long fingers playing at the grooves of the wood. "Deliver this message to Doctor Thomson:" it said, after a sufficiently uneasy pause, "we are improving the quality of our payments as time goes by, and soon you shall have only the crème de la crème. Tell him also that his residency shall be improved shortly." The hands curled and caressed the wood in an almost hypnotising, sensuous manner. Mr Lamb's gaze followed them with mild disinterest, for he new that the thing wished him to look. "Last of all, be sure to tell him that, should he assist in securing my prize, he shall have a share of it. Now, Mr Lamb, you may go."

Mr Lamb rose smoothly, dipping his head in respect for the thing, and left quickly and silently.

Harry woke, shaking and cold, his pyjamas and sheets sticking to every inch of him from sweat. His teeth and the palms of his hands ached from being clenched, and his breathing came rapidly.

He knew the dream had been one of Voldemort – unusual in its clarity – but could not for the life of him recall the specifics. A small man, some sort of bargain… and that was all.

No, he would not tell Ron. Ron would only insist that he tell others, and then he would be subjected to lectures and worried faces and perhaps even another torturous Occlumency class.

Harry reached for his wand, performed a quick drying spell, and swallowed a beaker of the Dreamless Sleep potion he had goaded Hermione into brewing.

****

.

"Pass the bacon?" 

"Here you are. Did you finish Binn's assignment last night?"

"Yes, of course I did. But I'm afraid it won't do you any good; you're not in my year, remember?"

"Oh. Yes. Quite right."

Harry and Ron observed this exchange tranquilly. "Girls," Ron pronounced through a mouthful of toast, "are weird."

Harry groaned. "You've _said_."

"No, I mean, _look_ at them!" Ron said, and nearly got jelly in Harry's ear as he waved emphatically. Ginny was now crouched down next to Colin Creevey, awarding him her best impression of a starving kitten as she begged for _his_ essay. "They've got to be the most manipulative creatures in the world, but…" and on and on he went. Harry's eyes glazed as he systematically processed his biscuit.

****

"Harry! Post!" Hermione called, and his head jerked up. Hedwig was approaching; her trademark white feathers noticeable amongst the greys and browns of the other owls. She had a letter tied to her right leg.

She landed, and he swiftly picked the knot apart, freeing her of her burden. She pecked a bit out of his biscuit, and then took off again, vanishing through the windows.

The envelope read merely 'Harry Potter, Hogwarts' and was sealed with some odd symbol involving an L and some kind of plant. (Wheat?) He slit the seal with his butter knife and shook out the letter.

It read:

__

Dear Harry:

How are you? (Such a typical way to begin, but a valid question nonetheless.)

I'm sure you've heard this from the rest of the Weasley clan, but Arthur and Molly are doing just fine – as are Tonks, Shacklebolt, Figg, Fletcher, and everyone else. Oh, and I'm doing well, also.

The lot of us have been terribly busy lately and I'm afraid that my letters over the summer were rather brief – though I fear this one will be too – and I didn't get to say half so much as I wished. Believe me, Harry; if it were safe for you to stay for any length of time with me during the summer, I'd have you. 

I have heard no ill news from Dumbledore or yourself – I trust this to mean that you're experiencing no further nightmares? Perhaps the Occlumency only needed time. If they do return, however, please notify an Order member **immediately**. It's imperative that we know everything we can about these dreams of yours.

Please write me with any concerns of yours, whether they're regarding Voldemort or simply 'girl trouble'. I can't guarantee helpfulness on the latter, but I'll certainly lend a sympathetic ear.

I hardly have the time it took to write this, so I'm afraid that I must go now. Give my best to Ron and Hermione.

With Love,

-R Lupin

"Who's it from?" Ron demanded, tugging at the letter. Harry jerked it out of his grasp and stuffed it down his trouser pockets.

"Just something stupid," Harry said dismissively.

Ron hesitated. "You know, if there's anything you want to talk -"

"I don't need to talk about anything!" Harry roared, standing up. Ron rocked back in his seat, as if the volume had physically pushed him. The Gryffindor table fell quiet, and several members of other houses cast curious glances in their direction.

Hermione caught his arm. "Harry, don't. Whatever's wrong, we can -"

Again, he cut her off. "There is nothing wrong! Why do you all think there is? I'm fine! In fact, I'd probably be cheerful as anything if you'd leave me alone! And you're all just standing there, chatting – chatting as if nothing's happened!" His tone was low and dangerous; no one outside his own table could hear him, but everyone within was staring at him in rapt attention. It was not every day that Harry Potter threw a full-fledged temper tantrum in the company of so many.

He shook Hermione off and stormed from the hall. There was only half an hour before Transfiguration, so he didn't have time for a good sulk by the lake. He stomped through the halls as noisily as possible.

Everyone – Ron, Hermione, Lupin, the teachers – acted as if this year was no different from any other! As if people hadn't died and Voldemort wasn't rapidly gaining power. 'Terribly busy', Lupin said! Well, he could've written. Harry was tired of being pushed aside and forgotten anytime he wasn't saving the world. He was tired of being the means to the end. He was tired of no one caring about what he was thinking unless it had to do with that – that _bloody_ prophecy!

McGonagall's head snapped up as he entered the room. "Mr Potter! Please refrain from slamming my doors! If you do so again I will be forced to take points." She looked at him for a moment, and her thin brows drew together in concern. "Mr Potter, are you alright?"

"Fine," he said, and sat down.

****

.

Harry rummaged in his trunk for the hideous old orange jumper that he knew would be at the bottom. He couldn't remember if it was a Dursley gift (not from Dudley, though, as it fit reasonably well) or a Dobby gift, but it was perfect for Halloween. He pulled it on.

The door swung open and Ron strode inside, scowling fiercely. Harry quickly tugged the jumper into place and turned to face him.

"Look," Ron began, sounding once again as if he'd rehearsed the speech he was about to make, "I'm _sick_ of the way you've been treating Hermione and me. We're your friends – your _best_ friends – and you're going mad on us for no reason at all."

"Yes," Hermione said from the doorway. Her right hand clutched her left wrist nervously, "you're being quite unfair to us. I know that you're very angry, but we aren't the people on whom to take out your frustrations."

"And," Ron continued seamlessly, "if you're really having that many problems, you should talk to a teacher. Like Dumbledore."

"Or Hagrid, or McGonagall, or anyone at all!" Hermione quickly interjected.

"If you continue like this, though, we're going to leave you alone, just like you want. Except we'll leave you _completely_ alone. We can't take this kind of – of – of…"

" - casual cruelty," Hermione deftly came to his rescue.

"Right. We can't take this kind of casual cruelty. So we're giving you a -"

"An ultimatum."

Ron sent a positively seething glare in Hermione's direction. "I _know_ the word. I'm not stupid." He turned to Harry. "We're giving you an ultimatum. Either you're fair with us and talk to us, or we don't talk at all."

Harry bit his lip. Silence permeated the room; only the sounds of nervous breathing and the slight shuffle of equally anxious feet were audible. "I'm sorry," he said at last, "I have been horrible to you two, and I'm sorry. I'm just… stressed. Worried."

Hermione's lips parted, no doubt to ask what he was worried about, but he anticipated this and cut her off. "But let's talk about all of this later. I'd like to actually have dinner." He gave her his widest grin. "It's the Halloween Feast, after all."

"Yes," she said, "it is." She didn't look like she believed him in the slightest. Neither did Ron. They didn't make any further protests, though, and the three of them headed peaceably – if tensely – to the Great Hall.

****

.

Draco slumped over his pumpkin juice. Everything was pumpkin. Pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake, cauldron cakes with pumpkin stuffing, pumpkin-flavoured Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans, and pumpkin sherbet to finish it all off. He had never liked pumpkin in the first place and, every Halloween, this dislike was escalated into a full, pulsing, mind-blowing hatred. He fervently wished that all the orange squash in the world would wither on its vines come the first of October.

Pansy sat down next to him. "Now, don't be sulky," she coaxed, smirking a bit, "it's Halloween. The day of evil spirits and all that. Aren't we Slytherins supposed to be bathing in blood and invoking all sorts of malevolent forces to plague the school? Scivi's the only who's actually _up to something_. That's rather pathetic, don't you think?"

He agreed that yes, it really was.

"So?" she said. "After this intensely _boring_ feast is over the lot of us can utilise one of the secret passages and sneak into Hogsmeade. We'd be caught in the Three Broomsticks, but no one bothers anyone in Hog's Head, and we could get fabulously drunk. Not to say that _I_ would," she added quickly, "I've learned my lesson. It would be great fun, though."

He shrugged, and everything burst into chaos.

Eleanor White, a Ravenclaw who had been chatting with Blaise (his secret girlfriend?) was the first at their table to notice anything amiss. She felt the cool dampness in her hair and reached up to touch it, letting out a startled gasp when her hands came away coated in brown muck. She cried out when it started to drip into her eyes, but it was Blaise that screamed when he turned to look at her.

The same thing was happening all across the hall. All the Muggleborns and Halfbloods of the school were bellowing and shrieking as the substance materialised from nowhere and coated them.

Panic didn't really hit, though, until a Hufflepuff second year screeched "I'm bleeding! I'm _bleeding_!"

Blood – or something very like it – was pouring from their hands and mouths and ears and eyes and everyone was screaming, many breaking into hysteric sobs. The strangest thing, though, was that even though the tainted ones were running about, smashing into walls and floors and purebloods, the stuff remained exclusively on them.

Hermione was the worst-afflicted. The mud was so thick on her that she couldn't rise from her knees, and she was 'bleeding' more than anyone else in the room. Harry and Ron were searching for her, pushing themselves through the crowd, but she could not talk through the mud and blood and her form was indistinguishable.

"Draco, oh, Draco, oh, flying _muggles_, Draco, oh! _Look_ at them! Will you _look_ at them? Oh! What… who did this? Was this – was this from the Cause?" Pansy's voice shook very slightly. She was standing still, her arms crossed over her chest and hands clenched around her shoulders.

"I think it was Pratt," he said.

A prank, he thought, some prank indeed. The teachers were wading through the masses now, trying to disspell their students. It wasn't working.

Pansy caught his arm. "Let's go," she said, "I don't want to be around here anymore. You know they're going to look through all of Slytherin for the culprit."

"If we leave, they'll think _we_ did it."

"Not if we take a lot of people with us. Let's – let's go the Hog's Head early. We'll get everyone in our year, and anyone else who wants to come along. I don't want to be here when they get it all straightened out," she repeated. 

"All right."

"I'll go get Vince and Greg. Maybe Blaise. And all the girls, of course. Don't move," she said, and pushed her way into the masses.

"Are you disappointed that you didn't join in when you had the chance?" Scivi said from directly behind him.

Draco turned. "I would think you'd be more careful about keeping your identity a secret, with the teachers nosing about so much."

Scivi laughed. "They'll never figure me out; I've covered myself far too well for that. No, this was perfectly planned and precisely executed." He awarded Draco a proud grin. "So, I heard that you and Parkinson are assembling a party and meeting at the Hog's Head. Mind if I join? I've been working so feverishly lately that I'm dearly in need of a bit of… fun."

Draco watched Blaise Zabini, who was desperately trying to comfort the panic-stricken Eleanor. (Yes, almost certainly the girlfriend.) Every time she opened her mouth to talk to him a fresh wave of the blood-like substance would pour out. By rights, Blaise should have been coated with the stuff, but it wouldn't even touch him.

"How did you manage it?" he asked.

"Manage what? Oh, this. Well… I'd prefer to give the details in a more… private place. I'm sure you realise how much I'm risking my neck for this. So, am I invited to your little excursion? We can talk there, at the Hog's Head."

He doubted that Pansy would approve – she loathed Scivi with a passion and probably wanted to get as far away from him and his 'Halloween Prank' as possible – but he was curious. Besides, if enough people came she wouldn't even have to look at him. "You're welcome to come."

Scivi grinned broadly. His teeth were very white. "Fantastic! I'll assemble some others to join us." He dipped into a mock-servile bow, said "If you'll excuse me?", and left.

In the end, they had all but Blaise – who refused to be parted from the injured Eleanor – from their house and year, as well as three-quarters of the Slytherin seventh years, a scattering of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, and two Gryffindors. Only Snape had noticed them departing (in little groups of twos and threes, and all in different directions) and taken any note of it. He, as usual, said nothing.

****

.

"Quiet! Quiet! Look, everyone, will you bloody well _shut up_!" The chatter of their little gathering fell to a hush and then silenced completely under Scivi's wrathful stare. Draco was rather cross that the leader of this meeting – _himself_ – had been so easily usurped by Pratt, but reasoned that the other boy was the 'man of the hour', and it was only natural that others would listen to him, if only out of curiosity.

"Alright. Now… I know a lot of you have questions about the event that took place in the Great Hall this fine evening – and I have the answers. For, you see, it was _I_ who dreamed it up, _I_ who planned it, and _I_ who implemented it!"

"The only thing that stops him from being a great orator is his ego," Pansy confided softly, her breath whispering against his ear.

"Why did I do this? To show our power! Our power over the low-born scum that are allowed – allowed by stupid, blind old fools like Dumbledore – to overrun our fine, fine school!" He leaned over the table, his intriguing cinnamon-coloured eyes bright with excitement. "And so I decided to concoct a little demonstration! To show them their place! They are nothing to us, just filthy little _Mudbloods_. I only labelled them as what they are! Surely, no one can find fault with that!" He straightened and raised his arms in a broad, questioning gesture. No one made a sound.

"For those of you interested in the mechanics – well, it was complicated. I am not so bold as to say I did it completely on my own – I had help from several senior members of the…" He broke off as he realised that not everyone at the table was an initiate. "… of the, ah, ah, _Society Against Muggleborns_."

A blonde boy in Draco's year – a Hufflepuff, by his tie – raised his hand languidly. "I thought S.A.M. was purely politics, and that they were ultimately against any sort of violence or harmful demonstration. They're very peaceful, from what I understand."

Scivi turned. "What's your name?" he demanded.

"Zacharias Smith. Hufflepuff Sixth Year. You were going to say 'Death Eaters', weren't you?"

Several exclamations rose from the non-Order members of the group, and one of the Gryffindors (a seventh year) actually stood up.

"I've had just about enough of this," he said. "I only came to see what it was you Slytherins were all up in arms about, but I've had enough of this. My best mate's a halfblood, and he's a great person. I'm leaving." He collected his hat, pushed his chair in, and began to do so before he stopped. "And don't think that, if I hear _anything_ like this again, I won't report it!" The door slammed behind him.

Zacharias Smith stretched his arms above his head. "Don't bother with him," he said, "that's Casca Broomsmith. He doesn't _have_ any friends, and he's possibly the biggest coward in the school, though he loves threats. I think he must've bribed the Hat into placing him in Gryffindor."

Pansy sat up in her chair and rapped her mug of Butterbeer (thankfully already drained) against the table three times. Again, silence descended.

"Before we talk any farther, I think we should investigate those that are… unfamiliar. Maybe Broomsmith won't talk, but I don't want to risk anyone else. Not that I had any part in this, of course," she added hastily.

Scivi laughed. "Of course you didn't, Parkinson. You were far too concerned with your Prefect status to do anything _meaningful_. However, I'll grant you that we should conduct brief interviews." He shifted his gaze back to Zacharias. "So, little Hufflepuff, tell us about yourself."

Zacharias shrugged. "Like I said, I'm a Hufflepuff sixth year. I'm fairly unremarkable. As for the traditional Hufflepuff loyalty – I'm loyal to myself, and those people or causes that deserve it. I've come here to find out if yours does."

Pansy nodded. "I'll let him pass."

Pratt bristled. "You're not judging this, Parkinson! Anyway, I'm inclined to think your opinion is based solely on the fact that he looks like your boyfriend."

"Pratt, that's _enough_." Draco snapped.

Scivi's jaw shut with a click of teeth, the muscles of his face tense and angry. Draco felt immensely powerful.

Pansy tossed her curls and awarded Draco a terrific grin of thanks. "I said, I'll let him pass. Now: you, Gryffindor. Who are you and why are you here?"  
"I'm Seamus Finnigan," the boy said, "and I thought that what you did tonight was really, er, brave."

One of the Slytherins, previously thought to be sleeping, straightened and peered at him blearily. It was "that Queenie girl". "I thought you were a Halfblood," she said. "In fact, I'm almost sure of it… How did you manage to get out of the curse?"

All eyes turned to the Gryffindor. "I – I… I don't know! I wasn't affected!" he stammered.

Scivi hit the table with his fist. "Damn! I thought I had everyone in the school plotted out! You see," he explained to his audience, "I couldn't manage a spell that encompassed only the Muggleborns and Halfbloods – if it were possibly then the Dark Lord would already have won the war – so I simply bound every Muggleborn or Halfblood I could think of. I got almost all of them, but I suppose no one is perfect." He shook his head.

"My mum divorced my dad last spring," Finnigan cut in quickly, "and I'm living with my her. She's the witch. I don't like muggles."

"That doesn't-" Scivi began.

"I'll pass him," said Pansy loudly, overriding him. "Personally, I think that Halfbloods are rather second-class, but they aren't _vermin_, like Mudbloods. And, if he doesn't support Muggles…" she trailed off.

"You'd allow Harry Potter in, if he attended!" Scivi snarled.

"Shut up, Pratt," Draco commanded, and once more the other boy fell silent.

The Queenie girl raised her hand slightly. "I vote," she drawled, "that we adjourn this meeting. We're getting nowhere, and Pratt's just pumping his own already-bloated ego. Besides, it's just past midnight and the school board no doubt thinks we're planning dastardly things. Added to that, I'm dead tired and there's school tomorrow. If it hasn't been cancelled, of course. Let's go."

A few minor arguments were put up, but they were swiftly squelched, as most everyone felt the same. They left by broom, passageway or Portkey (Draco and Pansy by the last), departing to their separate dorms and houses. In the chaos, no staff members had noticed their absence, and their dorm-mates were too frantic to really comment on it.

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

Another interesting night.

Scivi Pratt implemented his little 'plan' tonight, during the Halloween feast. All the Muggleborns and Halfbloods of the school were covered in, appropriately, a mixture of mud and blood. While the teachers were rushing about and panicking, a couple of us who admired – or at least agreed with – Scivi's prank assembled at the Hog's Head. It was meant to be a meeting, but it was really more of an argument. After an hour of getting absolutely nowhere, we came home.

There's another D.E. meeting – not this weekend, but next – and I'll be able to join the full Death Eaters this time. I've heard stories from Father, of course, but… can you imagine what it will be like? I realise that he may have idealised things somewhat, but it sounds fantastic. They're really making a statement – and one that's much more potent than Pratt's stupid idea!

I think Snape knows what we're doing, but chooses not to say anything. I know that he's a D.E. as well, but Father never believed him completely. I like him fine, but as far as the D.E.s go… he isn't to be trusted.

Now that he's finished with his latest example of stupidity, Scivi must find some other way to wreak havoc on the school. He's now preaching that we've got to get Professor West sacked because "she's an alcoholic!". Honestly. Apparently, he had a detention with her and, when she went out of the room for a moment, he started nosing about. He opened one of the closets and found a private little wine cellar.

Bloody idiot. If Pansy hears him he'll be sporting a few bruises come the morning. She idolises Prof. West, as I think I've mentioned before.

Why does Halloween have to be on a **Thurdsday**? We have school tomorrow and I'm most certainly **not** going to get enough sleep. Whoever decided to set such holidays by the date rather than the day should be hanged.

Well, I suppose I should turn in for the night.

****

.

Harry and Ron were packed in with perhaps three dozen other students, pressed against the waiting room walls. Every time the door to the Infirmary creaked open it was hailed by a cacophony of voices, each demanding how their friends and family were faring. The concerned parties were let in by ones and twos, then quickly ushered out again to make room for more. Intense charms had been utilised to magically expand the entire Hospital Wing, and every available object had been transfigured into some kind of cot. Madam Pomfrey rushed back and forth, cleansing and nullifying charms falling fast and thick along with soothing ointments and sedatives. She repeated to herself, over and over, that "This place was not meant to accommodate so many! How can I cope?"

Nevertheless, she managed.

The door opened fractionally and everyone pushed forward eagerly. "Potter! Weasley! To visit Miss Granger!" McGonagall bellowed from within, nearly catching her nose between the door and frame as the students pressed closer.

Somehow, they managed to wind their ways to the front of the room and slip through the doors.

Hermione, like everyone else in the infirmary, was clean (at last!) and wrapped in an under-robe and white cotton sheets. Her eyes were open, but she had clearly been sedated, for they wouldn't focus on any one thing.

"Hey, Hermione," Ron offered.

She looked up at him. "m'lo," she slurred. "Ha' this spell. 'm can't think prop'ly. Can't focusus. 'n I've got a funny mark on m' shoulder. 's weird." She pulled down a corner of the sheet to show them.

It was livid red and looked almost infected, though that was almost certainly the colour. It looked almost like a stamp; two elegant initials wrapped inside a decorative circle with little symbols trailing from the ends of the letters. And, really, it _was_ a stamp of sorts – just not a positive one.

The initials were 'M B', and the symbols were scarlet teardrops – blood. Ron pulled away as if touching the bed on which she lay had burned him, while Harry's entire body went rigid.

" 's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Harry, "we'll talk to you when you're feeling better."

"M'kay," she murmured, pulling the sheets up over her chin and scrunching herself down among them. 

McGonagall approached again and escorted them out. "All of them have it," she whispered. "It's some sort of side effect of the curse. We'll be able to take it off, never fear, boys. Miss Granger and everyone else will be fine." She pushed them out the door and called, "Brocklehurst and Patil to see Turpin!"

****

.

__

Dear Journal,

Apparently, there was one effect of the curse that Scivi neglected to tell us – and one that would assure him a sentence in Azkaban (possibly for life!) if he were caught.

Apparently, he invoked the same sort of charm used to bind us to the Dark Mark, and has branded almost every single Mudblood and Halfblood in this school with a seal denouncing them as such. Two or three have escaped this, but only by good fortune.

Why has everything suddenly become so serious? And so complicated!

****

.

A/N Many thanks to **Cardigan Pantalones**, **SnowspiKe**, and **Closet_Geek**. (For betaing, artistry, and exemplary reviewing – respectively.) This chapter was rather difficult to write because of the intense… well, _tension_ that runs all the way through. Thank you all for being patient and understanding!

****

Review Section Thingy:

Lily the undead elf: Yes, by beta even enlisted the help of a WWII expert in making it more Hitler-esque. *Laughs* Well, as you got to read this one before it was posted, I hope you're sated. 

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Nez: *grins* Well, Snape's peevish mostly 'cause he's _Snape_, but it does count somewhat towards his Fits of Almighty Rage. Sorry this update was so slow. Bloody school. *growls*

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striped-jaguar: Hmm. Lagging? Really? Well, I have it all planned out, so it isn't just drifting about aimlessly. I doubt it's your own stupidity – probably my lack of writing skills. . Your review is very helpful. Oh, and yes, there will be slash. Patience! Patience, grasshopper! (And slash as in m/m, homosexual writing, not slasher flicks or anything. ~.^) Thank you so much for the review! *huggles and steals Draco-flag*

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sie: *blush* thanks!

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Katherine4: I'm so sorry I was slow this time! I'm evil! *wallows* Thank you, though! I like bringing out the reality in characters, especially in relationships, which is so often left in the dust for the sake of drama. Thank you again! *glomp*

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Weasley Wonders: Thank you, and I'm sorry I was late! *so very sorry* Hope you liked this chapter, and you're so terribly nice and faithfully reviewful and… stuff. *hugs*


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